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HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS 

IN 

LONDON 


Crossing  at  Piccadilly  Circus. 


Highways  and  Byways 
in  London 


,/y 

BY    MRS.    E.    T.    COOK 

WITH  •  ILLUSTRATIONS      BY 

HUGH    THOMSON    AND 

F.    L.    GRIGGS 


fLottlJon 
MACMILLAN    AND    CO.,    LIMITED 

NEW    YORK  :    THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
19O2 

All  rights  reserved 


RICHARD  CLAY  AND  SONS,  LIMITED, 
LONDON  AND  BUNGAY. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 


PAGE 
HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS I 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    RIVER 22 

CHAPTER  III 

RAMBLES    IN    THE   CITY -.       .         53 

CHAPTER  IV 

ST.    PAUL'S   AND   ITS   PRECINCTS 84 

CHAPTER  V 

THE   TOWER IO° 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  VI 

PAGE 

SOUTHWARK,    OLD    AND    NEW 121 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   INNS   OF   COURT 137 

CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   EAST  AND  THE   WEST 162 

CHAPTER  IX 

WESTMINSTER    .      .      .      ......      .      . 187 

CHAPTER  X 

KENSINGTON   AND   CHELSEA 2IO 

CHAPTER  XI 

BLOOMSBURY       .       . 238 

CHAPTER  XII 

THEATRICAL   AND    FOREIGN    LONDON 2/3 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PAGE 

LONDON    SHOPS    AND    MARKETS 298 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   GALLERIES,    MUSEUMS,    AND   COLLECTIONS 324 

CHAPTER  XV 

HISTORIC    HOUSES    AND   THEIR    TENANTS 358 

CHAPTER  XVI 

RUS    IN    URBE 385 

CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   WAYS    OF    LONDONERS 4H 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   STONES  OF    LONDON 447 

INDEX   .  ......     473 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

CROSSING  AT  PICCADILLY  CIRCUS Frontispiece 

SANDWICH-BOARD  MEN 6 

THE  SHOEBLACK II 

WHEN  THE  STRAND  IS  UP l6 

WATERLOO  BRIDGE 22 

SIGHTSEERS 34 

THE  "TOP"  SEASON ...;..  40 

AN  UNDERGROUND  STATION 53 

CLOTHFAIR 57 

ST.  BARTHOLOMEW'S,  SMITHFIELD 66 

FIGHTING  COCKS 85 

ST.  PAUL'S  FROM  THE  RIVER 87 

ST.  MICHAEL'S,  PATERNOSTER  ROYAL 96 


xii  LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

A  BEEFEATER IO2 

CRICKET  IN  THE  STREET.    THE  LOST  BALL .12; 

A  COUNTY  COURT.    .    .    .    .-  ^ 130 

PEPYS  AND  HIS  WIFE .  140 

LINCOLN'S  INN 152 

FETTER  LANE 157 

A  RAILWAY  BOOKSTALI 163 

THE  CITY  TRAIN 165 

BANK    HOLIDAY 17 j 

IN    REGENT   STREET igo 

PICCADILLY :82 

SPESHUL  ! T87 

VICTORIA  TOWER,  WESTMINSTER 2O6 

ANGLERS  IN  THE  PARKS 7H 

KENSINGTON  PALACE  AND  THE  ROUND  POND 214 

EARL'S  COURT 221 

THE  GERMAN  BAND 339 

THE  PAVEMENT  ARTIST 249 

MUDIE'S  .....'.. 267 

THE  "GODS"    . 28r 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  xiii 

PAGE 

ICE-CREAM  BARROW 29! 

THE  ORGAN-GRINDER 293 

A  SALE  AT  CHRISTIE'S 298 

THE  DOG  FANCIER  III ...  304 

IN  THE  CHARING  CROSS  ROAD 306 

SATURDAY  NIGHT  SHOPPING 313 

AX  AERATED  BREAD  SHOP 321 

A  SKETCH  IN  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  325 

AT  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY 339 

RECRUITING  SERJEANTS  BY  THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY      ....  345 

AT  THE  CLUB 359 

WYCH  STREET 365 

CRICKET  IN  THE  PARKS 385 

ROTTEN  ROW 389 

ROTTEN  ROW 39! 

THE  SERPENTINE,  HYDE  PARK 393 

TEA  IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS 396 

A  FOUNTAIN  IN  ST.  JAMES'S  PARK 398 

THE  REFORMER 403 

A  JURY 4I4 


xiv  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

'BUS   DRIVER 4r5 

INSIDE 419 

"  BENK,  BENK!!" 421 

THE  HANSOM 424 

A  DOORSTEP  PARTY 428 

HOP-SCOTCH 433 

THE  RETURN,  BANK  HOLIDAY 435 

FLOWER  GIRLS 438 

THE  MEN  IN  BLUE 447 

THE  HORSE  GUARDS 456 


"  I  confess  that  I  never  think  of  London,  which  I  love,  without 
thinking  of  that  palace  which  David  built  for  Bathsheba,  sitting  in 
hearing  of  one  hundred  streams, — streams  of  thought,  of  intelligence,  of 
activity.  One  other  thing  about  London  impresses  me  beyond  any  other 
sound  I  have  ever  heard,  and  that  is  the  low,  unceasing  roar  one  hears 
always  in  the  air ;  it  is  not  a  mere  accident,  like  a  tempest  or  a  cataract, 
but  it  is  impressive,  because  it  always  indicates  human  will,  and  impulse, 
and  conscious  movement ;  and  I  confess  that  when  I  hear  it  I  almost 
feel  as  if  I  were  listening  to  the  roaring  loom  of  time." — Lowell. 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS 

IN 

LONDON 

CHAPTER  I 

HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS 

"  London  :  that  great  sea  whose  ebb  and  flow 
At  once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on  the  shore 
Vomits  its  wrecks,  and  still  howls  on  for  more, 
Yet  in  its  depths  what  treasures  !  " — Shelley 

"  Citizens  of  no  mean  city." 

THE  history  of  London  is — as  was  that  of  Rome  in  ancient 
times — the  history  of  the  whole  civilised  world.  For,  the  com- 
paratively small  area  of  earth  on  which  our  city  is  built  has,  for 
the  last  thousand  years  at  least,  been  all-important  in  the  story 
of  nations.  Its  chronicles  are  already  so  vast  that  no  ordinary 
library  could  hope  to  contain  all  of  them.  And  what  will  the 
history  of  London  be  to  the  student,  say,  of  the  year  3000 
A.D.,  when  our  present  day  politics,  our  feelings,  our  views, 
have  been  "  rolled  round,"  once  more,  in  "  earth's  diurnal  force," 
and  assume,  at  last,  their  fair  and  true  proportions  ? 

In  "  this  northern  island,  sundered  once  from  all  the  human 

E  B 


2  THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  LONDON  CHAP. 

race,"  has  for  centuries  been  lit  one  of  the  torches  that  have 
illumined  humanity.  Not  even  Imperial  Rome  shone  with  such 
a  lustre ;  not  even  the  Caesars  in  all  their  purple  ruled  over 
such  a  mighty,  such  an  all-embracing  empire. 

The  history  of  this  mighty  empire  is  bound  up  with  the 
history  of  London.  For,  the  history  of  London  is  that  of 
England  ;  it  was  the  river,  our  "  Father  Thames " — her  first 
and  most  important  highway,  a  "  highway  of  the  nations," — that 
brought  her  from  the  beginning  all  her  fame  and  all  her  glory. 
Partly  by  geographical  position,  partly  by  ever-increasing 
political  freedom,  and  partly,  no  doubt,  by  the  efforts  of  a 
dominant  race,  that  glory  has,  through  the  centuries,  been 
maintained  and  aggrandised. 

And  why,  some  may  ask,  is  London  what  it  is  ?  Why  was 
this  spot  specially  chosen  as  the  capital?  Surrounded  by 
marshes  in  early  Roman  times,  periodically  inundated  by  its 
tidal  river,  densely  wooded  beyond  its  marshes,  it  can  hardly 
have  seemed,  in  the  beginning,  an  ideal  site.  Why  was  not 
Winchester — so  important  in  Roman  times,  and,  later,  the 
capital  of  Wessex  -preferred  ?  Why  were  not  Southampton  or 
Bristol — apparently  equally  well  placed  for  trade — favoured  ? 
We  cannot  tell.  The  site  may  have  been  chosen  by  Roman 
London  because  it  was  the  most  convenient  point'  for  passing, 
and  guarding,  the  ferry  or  bridge  over  the  Thames,  and  for 
keeping  up  the  direct  communication  between  the  more 
northerly  cities  of  Britain,  and  Rome.  Or,  the  nearer  proximity 
to  the  large  Continent,  the  better  conditions  for  trade  offered 
by  the  wide  estuary  of  the  Thames,  possibly  account  for 
London's  supremacy. 

The  early  Roman  city  on  this  time  honoured  site,  the  poet- 
ically named  "  Augusta," — that  replaced  the  primitive  British 
village  —flourished  greatly  in  the  early  days  of  the  Christian 
era,  and  was  large  and  populous  ;  though  the  Romans  did  not 
consider  it  their  capital,  and  never — we  know  not  why — created 
it  a  "  municipium,"  like  Eboracum  (York),  or  Verulamium.  It 


I  THE  CITY  OF  AUGUSTA  3 

was  founded  some  time  after  the  visit  of  Julius  Caesar  to 
Britain,  B.C.  54,  and  it  occupied  a  good  deal  of  the  area  of  the 
present  City,  extending,  however,  towards  the  east  as  far  as  the 
Tower,  and  bounded  on  the  west  by  the  present  Newgate.  The 
old  Roman  fort  stood  above  the  Wallbrook.  Here  in  old  days 
ran  a  stream  of  that  name,  long  fouled,  diverted,  forgotten,  and, 
like  the  Fleet  River,  only  now  remembered  by  the  name  given 
to  its  ancient  haunt.  The  city  of  Augusta — or  Londinium  as 
Tacitus  calls  it — has  left  us  hardly  a  trace  of  its  undoubted 
splendour.  In  London,  ever  living,  relics  of  the  past  are  hard 
to  find.  The  lapse  of  centuries  has  deeply  covered  the  old 
Roman  city  level,  and  what  Roman  remains  exist  are  generally 
discovered,  either  in  the  muddy  bed  of  the  Thames,  or  at  a 
depth  of  some  twelve  to  nineteen  feet  below  the  present  street. 
Of  Roman  London  there  is  scarce  a  trace  — a  few  meagre  relics 
in  Museums,  a  few  ancient  roots  of  names  still  existing,  an  old 
bath,  traces  of  a  crumbling  wall,  the  fragment  that  we  call 
"  London  Stone,"  the  locality  of  Leadenhall  Market  (undoubt- 
edly an  old  "  Forum  "),  and  a  portion  of  the  old  Roman  Way  of 
"  Watling  Street " — the  ancient  highway  from  London  to  Dover 
— running  parallel  with  noisy  Cannon  Street. 

All  this  seems,  perhaps,  little  when  we  think  of  the  undoubted 
wealth  and  power  of  the  old  "  Londinium,"  or  "Augusta."  But 
it  has  always  been  the  city's  fate  to  have  its  Past  overgrown  and 
stifled  by  the  enthralling  energy  and  life  of  its  Present.  It  is  as 
a  hive  that  has  never  been  emptied  of  its  successive  swarms. 
This  is,  more  or  less,  the  fate  of  all  towns  that  "  live."  The 
Roman  town  was,  of  course,  strongly  walled,  and  the  names  of 
its  gates  have  descended  to  us  in  the  present  "  Ludgate," 
"Moorgate,"  "Billingsgate,"  "  Aldgate,"  &c — names  very 
familiar  to  us  children  of  a  later  age — and  now  mainly 
associated  with  the  more  prosaic  stations  on  the  Underground 
Railway !  Nevertheless,  prosaic  as  they  are,  these  stations 
commemorate  the  old  localities.  Roman  London  was  at  no 
time  large  in  circumference,  extending  only  from  the  Tower  to 

15    2 


4  SAXON  AND  NORMAN  CHAP. 

Aldgate  on  one  side,  from  the  Thames  to  London  Wall  on  the 
other.  And  when  the  Romans  left,  and  the  Saxons,  after  a 
brief  interval,  took  their  place,  the  city  still  did  not  grow  much 
larger,  nor  did  the  blue-eyed  and  fair-haired  invaders  contribute 
much  to  the  decaying  fortifications ;  though  it  is  said  that  King 
Alfred— he  whose  "  millenary  "  we  have  recently  commemorated 
— restored  the  walls  and  the  city  as  a  defence  against  the 
ravages  of  the  Danes.  Saxon  London,  however,  which  in  its 
time  flourished  exceedingly,  and  existed  for  some  400  years,  is, 
so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  more  dead  even  than  Roman  Lon- 
don. Successive  fire  and  ravage  have  obliterated  all  traces  of 
it.  Norman  London,  which  after  the  Conquest  replaced  Saxon 
London,  did  not,  apparently,  differ  greatly  in  externals  from  its 
predecessor.  The  churches  were  now  mainly  built  of  stone, 
but  the  picturesque  houses  were,  as  we  know,  despite  successive 
destroying  fires,  still  constructed  of  wood.  From  Norman 
London,  we  retain  the  "  White  Tower," — that  picturesque 
'*  keep  "  of  London's  ancient  fortress  --the  crypt  of  Bow  Church, 
and  that  of  St.  John's,  Clerkenwell,  with  part  of  the  churches  of 
St.  Bartholomew  the  Great,  Smithfield,  and  St.  Ethelburga, 
Bishopsgate.  Little  escaped  the  many  great  fires  that  in  early 
times  devastated  the  city. 

As  for  the  ancient  highways  of  London,  very  possibly  these 
did  not  differ  greatly  in  their  course  from  our  modern  ones  ; 
for  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  has  always  been  very  conservative  in 
rebuilding  its  new  streets,  regardless  of  symmetry  or  direct- 
ness, on  the  lines  of  the  destroyed  ones.  At  any  rate,  we 
know  that  the  original  church  of  St.  Paul's — the  first  of  three 
built  on  this  site,  founded  by  Ethelbert  about  the  year  610— 
and  that  of  Westminster— altered,  rebuilt,  and  enlarged  by 
successive  kings— must  have  early  sanctified  these  spots,  and 
necessitated  thoroughfares  between  the  two.  Nay,  even  in 
Roman  times,  temples  of  Diana  and  Apollo  are  believed  to  have 
adorned  these  historic  sites.  It  is  strange,  indeed,  that  the 
old,  long- vanished  Roman  wall,  pierced  only  by  a  few  gates, 


i  ANCIENT  HIGHWAYS  5 

and  the  ancient  street-plans  laid  down  by  the  Roman  road 
surveyor,  should  still  keep  modern  traffic  more  or  less  to  the 
old  lines.  A  few  new  streets  have  recently  been  made  from 
north  to  south,  but  still  the  main  traffic  goes  from  east  to  west, 
owing  to  the  paucity  of  intersecting  thoroughfares.  The  city 
of  London,  as  laid  out  in  Roman  times,  remained,  through 
Saxon  and  Norman  dominion,  practically  of  the  same  extent 
and  plan  as  late  as  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  in  whose  reign  there 
were  as  many  houses  within  the  city  walls  as  without  them. 
Roman  influence  is  still  dominant  in  modern  London.  The 
large  block  of  ground  without  carriage-way  about  Austin  Friars 
is  a  consequence  of  the  old  Roman  wall  having  afforded  no 
passage.  And  possibly  many  of  the  narrow,  jostling  City  streets 
have  in  their  day  reflected  the  shade  and  sun  of  Roman 
"insulas,"  each  with  its  surrounding  shops,  just  as,  later,  their 
dimensions  may  have  shrunk  between  the  overhanging,  high- 
gabled  houses  of  Tudor  times,  to  widen  again  under  the  tall 
Stuart  palaces  of  the  Restoration. 

The  high  antiquity  and  conservatism  of  London  are  shown  in 
nothing  more  than  in  these  narrow,  crooked  streets — streets  so 
different  from  those  of  any  other  big  metropolis — streets  that  our 
American  cousins,  in  all  the  superiority  of  their  regular  "  block  " 
system,  permit  themselves  to  jeer  at  !  We  know,  however, 
little  for  certain  of  the  actual  topography  of  London  streets, 
until  the  important  publication  of  Ralph  Aggas's  map  in  1563, 
soon  after  Elizabeth  had  begun  to  reign.  This  map  of  "  Civitas 
Londinium  "  is  strange  enough  to  look  at  in  our  own  day.  Its 
main  arteries  are  the  same  as  ours  :  the  ancient  highway  of  the 
Strand  is  still  the  Strand  ;  those  of  "  Chepe  "  and  "  Fleete  "still 
flourish;  Oxford  Street,  then  the  "Oxford  Road  "  and  "The 
Waye  to  Uxbridge,"  ran  between  hedgerows  and  pastures,  in 
which,  according  to  Aggas,  grotesque  beasts  sported ;  the 
thoroughfare  of  the  "  Hay  Market," — not  yet,  indeed,  "a  scene 
of  revelry  by  night," — curves  between  vast  meadows,  in  one  of 
which  a  woman  of  gigantic  size  appears  to  be  engaged  in 


HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS 


CHAP. 


spreading  clothes  to  dry;  Piccadilly,  at  what  is  now  the  "  Circus," 
is  merely  called  "  The  Waye  to  Redinge,"  and  is  innocently  bor- 
dered by  trees.  In  these  infantine  beginnings  of  the  now 


Sandwich-board  Men. 


populous  "West  End,"  there  are,  indeed,  occasional  plots 
occupied  by  "  Mewes,"  but  St.  Martin's  Church  (then  a  small 
chapel)  stands  literally  "in  the  Fields,"  and  St.  Martin's  Lane 
is  altogether  rural.  In  a  later  map — one  of  the  year  1610 — the 


i  PAST  AND  PRESENT  7 

main  arteries  are  still  the  same  ;  but,  though  the  town  had 
grown  rapidly  with  the  growth  of  commerce  in  Elizabeth's 
reign,  "  London  "  and  "  Westminster  "  are  still  represented  as 
two  small  neighbouring  towns  surrounded  by  rural  meadows  ; 
while  "  Totten-court  "  is  a  distant  country  village,  Kensington 
and  "  Marybone  "  are  secluded  hamlets,  Clerkenwell  and  "  St. 
Gylles  "  are  altogether  divided  from  the  parent  city  by  fields, 
and  "  Chelsey  "  is  in  the  wilds. 

It  is  strange  that  London  fires — and  London,  in  the  middle 
ages,  was  specially  prolific  in  fires — have  never  altered  the 
course  of  the  city's  highways.  Sir  Christopher  Wren  wished, 
indeed,  after  the  Great  Fire  of  1666,  to  be  allowed  to  alter 
the  plan  of  the  desolated  town  and  make  it  more  sym- 
metrically regular :  with  all  due  admiration  of  his  genius,  one 
cannot,  however,  help  feeling  a  certain  thankfulness  that  destiny 
averted  his  schemes,  and  that  in  the  prosaic  London  of  our 
own  day  we  can  still  trace  the  splendour,  the  romance  of  its 
past.  Thus,  even  in  the  grimy  city  "  courts "  we  can  still 
imagine  a  Roman  "impluvium,"  or  the  ancient  gardens  of 
Plantagenet  palaces  :  in  the  blind  alleys  of  "  Little  Britain,"  the 
splendours  of  the  merchants'  mansions  ;  in  the  ugly  lines  of 
mews  and  slums,  the  limits  of  the  vanished  Norman  convent 
closes.  The  boundaries  are  still  there,  though  nearly  all  else 
has  gone.  For,  though  Londoners  are  generally  conservative 
with  regard  to  their  chief  sites  and  the  lines  of  their  streets, 
they  have,  so  far  as  their  great  buildings  are  concerned,  always 
been  by  nature  iconoclastic.  Not  that  we  of  the  present  day 
need  give  ourselves  any  airs  in  this  matter.  Although,  indeed, 
for  the  last  half-century  the  spirit  of  antiquarian  veneration  has 
been  abroad,  yet  the  great  majority  of  Londoners  are  hardly 
affected  by  it,  and  the  pulling  down  of  ancient  buildings  con- 
tinues almost  as  gaily  as  ever  at  the  present  day.  It  may  be 
said  that  we  pull  down  for  utilitarian  reasons ;  well,  so  did  our 
forefathers  ;  Londoners  have  always  been  practical.  Religious 
zeal  may  occasionally  have  served  to  whet  their  destructive 


8  MEDIAEVAL  ICONOCLASM  CIIAI. 

powers,  but  the  results  are  pretty  much  the  same.  Perhaps 
Henry  VIII. — that  Bluebeard  head  of  the  Church  and  State — 
has,  in  his  general  dissolution  of  the  monasteries  and  alienation 
of  their  property,  been  the  greatest  iconoclast  in  English  annals  ; 
yet  even  he  must  have  been  nearly  equalled  by  the  Lord  Pro- 
tector Cromwell,  whose  Puritanical  train  wrought  so  much 
havoc  among  London's  monuments  of  a  later  age.  Reforms 
and  improvements,  all  through  the  world's  history,  have  always 
been  cruelly  destructive.  For,  while  churches  and  palaces 
were  destroyed  as  relics  of  Popery,  while  works  of  art  were 
demolished,  and  frescoes  whitewashed  in  reforming  zeal,  fresh 
life  was  always  sprouting,  fresh  energy  ever  filling  up  gaps,  ever 
obliterating  the  traces  of  the  past,  the  relics  of  the  older  time. 
Sir  Walter  Besant,  in  his  picturesque  and  vivid  sketch  of 
English  history,  has  realised  well  for  us  the  city's  past  life  : — 

"  It  is  (he  says  of  the  Reformation)  at  first  hard  to  understand  how  there 
should  have  been,  even  among  the  baser  sort,  so  little  reverence  for  the 
past,  so  little  regard  for  art  ;  that  these  treasure-houses  of  precious  marbles 
and  rare  carvings  should  have  been  rifled  and  destroyed  without  raising  so 
much  as  a  murmur ;  nay,  that  the  very  buildings  themselves  should  have 
been  pulled  down  without  a  protest.  ...  It  seems  to  us  impossible  that  the 
tombs  of  so  many  worthies  should  have  been  destroyed  without  the  indig- 
nation of  all  who  knew  the  story  of  the  past.  .  .  .  Yet  ...  it  is  un- 
fortunately too  true  that  there  is  not,  at  any  time  or  with  any  people, 
reverence  for  things  venerable,  old,  and  historical,  save  with  a  few.  The 
greater  part  are  careless  of  the  past,  unable  to  see  or  feel  anything  but  the 
present.  .  .  .  The  parish  churches  were  filled  with  ruins,  .  .  .  the  past 
was  gone.  .  .  .  The  people  lived  among  the  ruins  but  regarded  them  not, 
any  more  than  the  vigorous  growth  within  the  court  of  a  roofless  Norman 
castle  regards  the  donjon  and  the  walls.  They  did  not  inquire  into  the 
history  of  the  ruins  ;  they  did  not  want  to  preserve  them  ;  they  took  away 
the  stones  and  sold  them  for  new  buildings." 

Yet,  though  in  London's  history  there  were,  as  we  have 
seen,  occasional  great  upheavals,  such  as  the  Reformation,  the 
Fires,  the  Protectorate,  it  was  more  the  rule  of  change  that 
went  on  unceasingly  between  whiles— change,  such  as  we  see 
it  to-day,  the  incessant  beat  of  the  waves  on  the  shore— that 


I  THE  OLD  AGE  AND  THE  NEW  9 

has  obliterated  the  former  time.  "The  old  order  changeth, 
giving  place  to  new " ;  and  strange  indeed  it  is,  when  one 
comes  to  think  of  it,  that  anything  at  all  should  be  left  to 
show  what  has  been.  The  monasteries,  the  priories,  the 
churches,  that  once  occupied  the  greater  portion  of  the  city, 
and  filled  it  with  the  clanging  of  their  bells,  so  that  the  city 
was  never  quiet — these,  of  course,  had  mainly  to  go.  The 
Church  had  to  make  way  for  Commerce ;  the  Monasteries  for 
the  Merchants.  The  London  of  the  early  Tudors  was  still 
more  or  less  that  of  Chaucer,  and  contained  the  same  Friars, 
Pardoners,  and  Priests.  The  paramount  importance  of  the 
Church  is  shown  by  the  old  nursery  legends  that  circle  round 
Bow  bells ;  and  the  picturesque  figure  of  Whittington,  the 
future  Lord  Mayor,  listening,  in  rags  and  dust,  to  the  cheering 
church  bells  that  tell  him  to  "turn  again,"  is  really  the  con- 
necting link  between  the  Old  and  the  New  Age. 

A  few  of  the  great  monastic  foundations  of  London  escaped 
Henry  VIII.'s  acquisitive  zeal,  and  have,  as  modern  school- 
boys have  reason  to  know,  been  devoted  to  educational  and 
other  charitable  aims.  It  was,  indeed,  eminently  suitable  that 
in  the  classic  precincts  of  the  ruined  monastery  of  the  "  Grey 
Friars "  should  arise  a  great  school — the  School  of  Christ's 
Hospital  (colloquially  termed  the  "  Blue-Coat  School ") — where, 
till  but  the  other  day,  the  "young  barbarians"  might  be  seen 
at  play  behind  their  iron  barriers,  backed  by  the  fine  old 
whitely-gleaming,  buttressed  hall  that  faces  Newgate  Street. 
It  was  fitting,  too,  that  the  early  dwelling  of  the  English 
Carthusian  monks — the  place  where  Prior  Houghton,  with  all 
the  staunchness  of  his  race,  met  death  rather  than  cede  to  the 
tyrant  one  jot  of  his  ancient  right — should  become  not  only  a 
great  educational  foundation,  but  also  a  shelter  for  the  aged 
and  the  poor.  We  know  it  as  the  "  Charterhouse " ;  as  a 
picturesque,  rambling  building  of  sobered  red-brick,  built 
around  many  court-yards,  its  principal  entrance  under  an 
archway  that  faces  the  quiet  Charterhouse  Square.  The  place 


io  THE  SURPRISES  OF  LONDON  CHAP. 

has  a  monastic  atmosphere  still ;  to  those,  at  least,  who  reve- 
rently tread  its  closes  and  byways— byways  hallowed  yet  more 
by  inevitable  association  with  the  sacred  shade  of  Thomas 
Newcome ;  shadow  of  a  shade,  indeed !  fiction  stronger,  and 
more  enduring,  than  reality  ! 

Yet  the  Charterhouse  is,  so  to  speak,  an  "  insula  "  by  itself 
in  London,  a  world  of  its  own ;  possessing  an  ancient  sanctity 
undisturbed  by  the  neighbouring  din  of  busy  Smithneld,  the 
unending  bustle  of  the  great  city.  More  essentially  of  Lon- 
don is  the  curious  unexpectedness  of  buildings,  places,  and 
associations.  What  is  so  strange  to  the  inexperienced 
wanderer  among  London  byways  is  the  manner  in  which  bits 
of  ancient  garden,  fragments  of  old,  forgotten  churchyards, 
isolated  towers  of  destroyed  churches,  deserted  closes,  courts 
and  slums  of  wild  dirt  and  no  less  wild  picturesqueness, 
suddenly  confront  the  pedestrian,  recalling  incongruous  ideas, 
and  historical  associations  puzzling  in  their  very  wealth  of 
entangled  detail.  The  "  layers "  left  by  succeeding  eras  are 
thinly  divided;  and  the  study  of  London's  history  is  as 
difficult  to  the  neophyte  as  that  of  the  successive  "  layers  "  of 
the  Roman  Forum. 

It  is  sometimes  refreshing  to  note  that,  even  in  the  City  and 
in  our  own  utilitarian  day,  present  beauty  has  not  been  altogether 
lost  sight  of.  There  is  in  modern  London,  as  a  French 
writer  lately  remarked,  "no  street  without  a  church  and  a 
tree " ;  this  is  especially  true  of  the  City,  where,  even  in 
crowded  Cheapside,  the  big  plane-tree  of  Wood  Street  still 
towers  over  its  surrounding  houses,  hardly  more  than  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  shadow  cast  by  the  white  steeple  of  St.  Mary- 
le-Bow,  glimmering  in  ghostly  grace  above  the  busy  street. 
So  busy  indeed  is  the  street,  that  hardly  a  pedestrian  stays  to 
notice  either  church  or  tree  ;  yet  is  there  a  more  beautiful 
highway  than  this  in  all  London  ?  It  is  satisfactory  to  reflect 
—when  one  thinks  of  the  accusation  brought  against  us  that 
we  are  "  a  nation  of  shopkeepers  " — on  what  this  one  big 


IN  THE  CITY 


ii 


plane-tree  costs  a  year  in  mere  lodging  !    Wandering  northward 
from    Cheapside   down   any  of  the  crowded    City  lanes   with 

^^         ^ 


their  romantic  names,  through  the  mazes  of  drays  and  waggons 
—where  porters  shout  over  heavy  bales,  and  pulleys  hang  from 
upper  "  shoots  " — you  may  find,  in  a  sudden  turn,  small  oases 


12  ST.  GILES,  CRIPPLEGATE  CHAP. 

of  quiet  green  churchyard  gardens — for  some  unexplained 
reason  spared  from  the  prevailing  strenuosity  of  bricks  and 
mortar— where  wayfarers  rest  on  comfortable  seats,  provided  by 
metropolitan  forethought,  from  daily  toil.  In  these  secluded 
haunts  are  many  spots  that  will  amply  reward  the  sketcher. 
Specially  charming  in  point  of  colour  are  the  gardens  of  St. 
Giles,  Cripplegate ;  these,  though  closed  to  the  general  public, 
are  overlooked  and  traversed  by  quiet  alleys,  affording  most 
welcome  relief  from  the  surrounding  din  of  traffic.  Here  sun- 
flowers and  variegated  creepers  show  out  bravely  in  autumn 
against  the  blackened  mass  of  the  tall  adjoining  warehouses, 
whence  a  picturesque  bastion  of  the  old  "  London  Wall  "  pro- 
jects into  the  greenery,  and  the  church  of  St.  Giles,  with  its 
dignified  square  tower,  dominates  the  whole.  The  author  of 
The  Hand  of  Ethelberta  has,  in  that  novel,  paid  graceful 
homage  to  the  church  and  its  surroundings.  The  little  bit  of 
vivid  colour  in  the  sunny  churchyard  (it  is  part  rectory  garden, 
and  is  divided  by  a  public  path  since  1878),  affords  a  standing 
rebuke  to  the  unbelievers  who  say  gaily  that  "  nothing  will 
grow  "  in  London.  A  delightful  byway,  indeed,  is  this  parish 
church  of  Cripplegate  !  Its  near  neighbourhood  shows,  by 
the  way,  hardly  a  trace  of  the  disastrous  fire  it  so  lately 
experienced.  From  the  corner  of  the  picturesque  "  Aerated 
Bread  Shop  " — of  all  places — that  abuts  on  to  the  church,  a 
delightful  view  of  all  this  may  be  had.  This  ancient  lath-and- 
plaster  building  will,  no  doubt,  in  time  be  compelled  to  give 
way  to  some  abnormally  hideous  new  construction,  but  at  the 
present  day  it  is  all  that  could  be  wished  ;  and,  though  so  close 
to  the  hum  of  the  great  city,  so  quiet  withal,  that  the  visitor 
may,  for  the  nonce,  almost  imagine  himself  in  some  sleepy 
country  village.  And  thus  it  is  in  many  unvisited  nooks  in  the 
busy  City.  "The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot,"  is 
truer  of  these  byways  than  of  many  more  rural  places.  For  the 
eddies  of  a  big  river  are  always  quieter  than  the  main  stream  of 
a  small  canal.  In  the  world,  yet  not  of  it,  are,  too,  these 


i  THE  FALL  OF  THE  MONASTERIES  13 

strangely  old-fashioned  rectories,  sandwiched  in  between  tall, 
overhanging  city  warehouses. 

But  the  sprinkling  of  old  churches,  with  their  odd,  abbrevi- 
ated churchyards,  that  are  still  to  be  found  amid  the  busy  life 
of  the  City  of  London,  hardly  does  more  than  faintly  recall  that 
picturesque  and  poetic  time  when  the  church  and  the  convent 
were  pre-eminent.  The  great  temporal  power  of  the  Church 
in  London,  that  held  sway  during  long  centuries,  is  vanished, 
forgotten,  supplanted  as  if  it  had  never  been.  Do  the  very  names 
of  Blackfriars  and  Whitefriars  suggest,  for  instance,  to  us,  "  the 
latest  seed  of  time,"  anything  more  than  the  shrieking  of  railway 
terminuses,  or  the  incessant  din  of  printing  machines  ?  For, 
while  the  memory  of  the  u  Grey  Friars "  and  that  of  the 
Carthusians  is  still  honoured  and  kept  green  in  the  dignified 
"  foundations  "  of  Christ's  Hospital  and  of  the  Charterhouse, — 
the  orders  of  the  "  White  "  and  "  Black  "  Friars,  of  the  Carmel- 
ites, and  the  stern  Dominicans,  have  descended  to  baser  and 
more  worldly  uses.  Destroyed  at  the  Reformation,  its  riches 
alienated,  its  glory  departed,  the  splendid  Abbey  Church  of  the 
Dominicans  came  to  be  used  as  a  storehouse  for  the  "  pro- 
perties "  of  pageants  ;  "  strange  fate,"  says  Sir  Walter  Besant, 
"  for  the  house  of  the  Dominicans,  those  austere  *  upholders  of 
doctrine.'  "  For  the  dwelling  of  the  "  Carmelites,"  or  "White 
Friars,"  an  Order  of  "  Mendicants  "  these, — another  destiny 
waited — a  destiny  for  long  lying  unfolded  in  the  bosom  of  our 
"  wondrous  mother-age."  Mysterious  irony  of  Fate!  that  where 
the  Carmelite  monks,  in  their  Norman  apse,  prayed  and 
laboured ;  where  the  Mendicant  Friars  wandered  to  and  fro  in 
the  echoing  cloister,  the  thunder  of  the  printing-press  should  have 
made  its  home : 

"  There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 
O  earth,  what  changes  hast  them  seen  ! 
There,  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath  been 
The  stillness " 

—The  "Daily  Mail  Young  Man" — that  smart  product  of  a 


14  THE  NEW  ORDER  OF  MENDICANTS  CHAP. 

later  age— has  now  his  home  in  Carmelite  Street ;  the  "  White- 
friars'  Club  "  is  a  press  club  ;  the  gigantic  machines  that  print 
the  world's  news  shake  the  foundations  of  St.  Bride's  ;  and  the 
shabby  hangers-on  of  Fleet  Street — though  of  a  truth,  poor 
fellows,  often  near  allied  to  mendicants — are  yet,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  only  involuntarily  of  an  ascetic  turn.  The  contrast — or 
likeness — has  served  to  awaken  one  of  Carlyle's  most  thunderous 
passages  :  "  A  Preaching  Friar," — (he  says), — "  builds  a  pulpit, 
which  he  calls  a  newspaper : 

"  Look  well"  (he  continues), — "  thou  seest  everywhere  a  new  Clergy  of 
the  Mendicant  Orders,  some  bare-footed,  some  almost  bare-backed,  fashion 
itself  into  shape,  and  teach  and  preach,  zealously  enough,  for  copper  alms 
and  the  love  of  God." 

Carlyle,  apparently,  nursed  an  old  grudge  against  the  press, — 
for  this  is  not  the  only  occasion  when  he  fulminates  against  the 
new  order  of  Mendicants.  The  theatres,  also,  that  succeeded  the 
monasteries  of  Blackfriars  were,  here  too,  supplanted  by  the 
Press ;  under  Printing-House-Square  only  lately,  an  extension 
of  the  Times  Office  brought  to  light  substantial  remains. 

But  the  Church  was  not  the  only  mediaeval  beautifier  of 
London ;  as  her  temporal  power  and  splendour  waned, — the 
splendour  of  the  merchants  grew  and  flourished.  For  the  great 
supplanter  of  the  power  of  the  Church  was,  as  already  hinted, 
the  power  of  the  City  Companies.  These  immense  trades-unions 
began  to  rise  in  the  fourteenth  century,  when  the  old  feudal 
system  gave  way  to  the  civic  community ; — and  they  increased 
greatly  in  strength  after  the  dissolution  of  the  Monasteries. 
These  companies  incorporated  each  trade,  and  had  supreme 
powers  over  wages,  hours  of  labour,  output,  &c.  In  the  begin- 
ning they  were,  like  everything  else,  partly  religious,  each  com- 
pany or  "  guild  "  having  its  patron  saint  and  its  special  place 
of  worship; — the  Merchant  Taylors,  for  instance,  being  called 
the  "Guild  of  St.  John";— the  Grocers,  the  "Guild  of  St. 
Anthony  " ;  while  St.  Martin  protected  the  saddlers,  and  so  on. 
These  guilds  in  time  receiving  Royal  charters,  became  very  rich 


i  THE  CITY  COMPANIES  15 

and  powerful,  till  the  year  1363  there  were  already  thirty-two 
companies  whose  laws  and  regulations  had  been  approved  by 
the  king.  If  any  transgressed  these  laws,  they  were  brought 
before  the  Mayor  and  Aldermen.  We  have  still  the  Mayor  and 
Aldermen,  but  the  city  companies  (whose  principal  function 
was  the  apprenticing  of  youths  to  trades),  have  merely  the 
shadow  of  their  former  authority,  and  their  business  is  now 
mainly  charitable,  ceremonial,  and  culinary.  Yet  though  their 
powers  are  diminished,  their  splendid  "  halls  "  are  still  among 
the  most  interesting  "  sights "  of  the  City.  Visits  to  these 
massive  and  solid  palaces,  some  of  them  of  great  splendour,  and 
rising  like  pearls  among  their  often  (it  must  be  confessed)  un- 
savoury surroundings,  give  a  good  idea  of  the  immense  wealth 
of  those  mediaeval  merchant  princes,  and  help  the  stranger  to 
realize  the  strength  of  that  power  that  was  able  to  resist  the 
attempts  of  kings  to  break  its  charter.  Such  sturdy  independ- 
ence, such  insistence  on  her  civic  rights,  has  always  been  a 
main  element  of  London's  greatness. 

I  have  only  touched  at  the  mere  abstract  of  London's 
voluminous  history, — only  enumerated  a  poor  few  of  her 
Highways  and  Byways ;  the  subject,  in  truth,  is  too  great  to 
exhaust  even  in  a  whole  library  of  books.  It  is,  indeed,  the 
principal  drawback  to  the  study  of  London  that  she  is  too  vast 
— that  the  student  is  ever  in  danger  of  "  not  seeing  the  forest 
for  the  trees."  Her  byways  are  as  the  sands  of  the  sea  in 
multitude  ;  her  history  is  the  history  of  the  world.  It  is, 
perhaps,  better  that  the  stranger  to  the  metropolis  should  take 
in  hand  a  small  portion  at  a  time, — and  try  to  grasp  that 
thoroughly, — than  lose  himself  in  an  intricate  maze  of 
buildings  and  associations.  To  read  the  history  of  London 
aright, — to  see  and  feel  in  London  stones  all  that  can  be  seen 
and  felt,  requires  not  only  untiring  energy,  but  also  knowledge, 
sympathy,  intuition,  patriotism,  one  and  all  combined.  To 
know  London  really  well,  one  should  gain  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  her  from  day  to  day,  not  being  contented  with  the 


1 6 


A  LONDON  HIGHWAY 


common  and  well-known  ways,  but  ever  penetrating  into  fresh 
haunts.  From  all  the  great  highways  of  London,  from  the 
Strand,  Fleet  Street,  Piccadilly,  Holborn,  Oxford  Street,  con- 


When  the  Strand  is  up. 


venient  excursions  may  be  made  into  the  surrounding  neigh- 
bourhood ;  which  often,  in  different  parts  of  London,  is,  so  far 
as  inhabitants,  appearance,  manners  and  customs  go,  really 


I  THE  RESOURCES  OF  LONDON  17 

a  complete  and  distinct  city  by  itself.  Does  not  "  Little 
Britain  "  differ  widely  from  its  neighbouring  Clerkenwell  ?  Soho 
as  widely  from  its  adjacent  Bloomsbury  ?  and  the  immaculate 
Mayfair  from  the  more  doubtful  Bayswater  ?  Who  does  not 
recall  what  Disraeli — that  born  aristocrat  in  his  tastes — said  of 
the  people  who  frequent  the  plebeian,  though  charming, 
Regent's  Park  ? 

"  The  Duke  of  St.  James's,"  (he  says), — "  took  his  way  to  the  Regent's 
Park,  a  wild  sequestered  spot,  whither  he  invariably  repaired  when  he  did 
not  wish  to  be  noticed  ;  for  the  inhabitants  of  this  pretty  suburb  are  a 
distinct  race,  and  although  their  eyes  are  not  unobserving,  from  their 
inability  to  speak  the  language  of  London  they  are  unable  to  communicate 
their  observations." 

So  far  from  being  merely  one  town,  London  is  really  a 
hundred  townlets  amalgamated.  The  visitor  can  there  find 
everything  that  he  wants ;  he  must,  however,  know  exactly 
what  it  is  that  he  wants  to  find.  Does  he  desire  to  see  pictures  ? 
many  galleries  of  priceless  works  of  art  are  within  a  stone's 
throw,  free,  ready,  waiting  only  to  be  seen ;  does  he 
prefer  realism  and  life  ?  the  "  street  markets  "  of  Leather  Lane 
and  of  Goodge  Street  are  instinct  with  all  possible  types  of 
humanity;  does  he  yearn  for  peaceful  solitude,  historic 
association  ?  the  quiet  nooks  of  the  Temple  invite  him  ;  is  it 
solitary  study  that  his  soul  craves  ?  the  immense  library  of  the 
British  Museum  offers  him  all  its  treasures  ;  does  he  merely 
wish  to  perambulate  vaguely  ?  even  the  prosaic  Oxford  Street 
presents  a  very  kaleidoscope  of  human  life.  Nevertheless,  in 
his  perambulations,  the  wanderer  should  receive  a  word  of 
warning  :  let  him  beware  of  asking  for  local  information  (save 
indeed,  it  be  of  a  policeman),  for  two  reasons.  Firstly, 
because  no  born  Londoner  of  the  great  middle  class  ever 
knows,  except  by  the  merest  accident,  anything  whatever  about 
his  near  neighbourhood ;  and,  secondly,  because  if  he  do  get 
an  answer,  he  is  morally  certain  to  be  misdirected.  The 
wanderer  should  always  start  on  his  expeditions  with  a  distinct 

c 


i8  THE  VARIETY  OF  THE  STREETS  CHAP. 

plan  in  his  own  mind  of  the  special  itinerary  he  wishes  to 
adopt, — be  that  itinerary  Mr.  Hare's,  or  any  other  man's, — and 
he  should  never  allow  himself  to  be  drawn  off  from  it  to 
another  tangent.  Even  this  crowded  highway  of  Oxford 
Street,  "  stony-hearted  stepmother,"  old  gallows-road,  passing 
from  Newgate  Street  to  Tyburn  Tree,  and  bearing  so  many 
different  names  in  its  course, — beginning,  as  "  Holborn,"  in 
City  stress  and  turmoil,  intersecting  the  very  centre  of  fashion  at 
the  Marble  Arch,  and  continuing  as  the  "  Uxbridge  Road,"  to 
High  Street,  Netting  Hill,— passes  through  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men  and  things.  Tottenham  Court  Road,  that  glar- 
ing, fatiguing  thoroughfare,  which  through  all  its  phases  ever 
"  remains  sordid,  sunlight  serving  to  reveal  no  fresh  beauties 
in  it,  nor  gaslight  to  glorify  it,"  begins  in  comparative  honour 
in  New  Oxford  Street,  to  descend  through  bustle  and  racket 
to  the  noisy  taverns  and  purlieus  of  the  Euston  Road.  That 
sylvan  village  and  manor  of  "  Toten  Court,"  where  city  folk 
repaired  in  old  days  for  "  cakes  and  creame,"  seems  far  enough 
away  now  !  Fenchurch  Street, — or  rather  its  continuation  Aid- 
gate  Street, — as  it  merges  into  the  long  "  Whitechapel  Road," 
becomes  more  and  more  dreary;  not  even  its  soft-gliding, 
cushioned  tram-cars  lending  enchantment  to  the  depressing 
scene.  Waterloo  Road  and  Blackfriars  Road,  "  over  the  water," 
as  they  trend  southwards  pass  through  strange  and  often 
unsavoury  purlieus.  Every  district  has  its  special  idiosyn- 
crasies. Piccadilly  and  St.  James's  are  always  aristocratic. 
Pall  Mall  has  a  severe  and  solid  dignity ;  while  the  Strand 
and  its  continuation,  the  narrow  and  tortuous  Fleet  Street, 
are  instinct  with  ancient  honour  and  literary  association. 
Yet,  even  here,  if  the  visitor  have  not  the  "seeing  eye"  that 
discerns  the  past  through  the  present,  he  may  "  walk  from 
Dan  to  Beersheba  and  find  all  barren." 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  London  lies  in  its  unsuspected 
courts  and  byways.  From  most  of  these  big  thoroughfares 
you  may  be  transported,  with  hardly  more  than  a  step,  into 


I  SUGGESTED  ITINERARIES  19 

picturesque  nooks  of  sudden  and  almost  startling  silence,  or, 
rather,  cessation  from  din.  All  who  know  and  love  London 
will  recall  this.  From  busy  Holborn  to  the  aloofness  of  quiet 
Staple  Inn,  with  its  still,  collegiate  air,  what  a  change  from 
the  turmoil  of  Fleet  Street  to  the  closes  of  little  Clifford  Inn, 
with  its  old-world,  forgotten  air.  From  High  Street,  Kensing- 
ton, too,  that  town  with  all  the  air  of  a  smart  suburb,  how 
many  charming  excursions  may  not  be  made  on  Campden  Hill 
and  in  Holland  Park — a  neighbourhood  full  of  artistic  and 
literary  charm.  In  Westminster,  what  quiet,  secluded  nooks, 
and  green  closes,  abound  for  the  sketcher,  and  how  lovely  are 
the  gardens  of  the  Green  Park  and  St.  James's  Park,  bordered 
by  the  stately  palaces  of  St.  James's,  and  the  picturesque 
houses  of  Queen  Anne's  Gate.  And  all  along  the  river 
embankment,  from  Westminster  to  the  Tower,  are  interesting 
streets  and  nooks  full  of  historic  and  literary  association.  The 
embankment,  running,  at  first,  parallel  with  the  noisy  Strand  ; 
reaching  classic  ground  in  the  quiet  Temple,  by  that  garden 
where  the  "  red  and  white  rose "  first  started  their  bloody 
rivalry,  becomes  then  muddy  and  uncared  for  before  the 
newspaper  land  of  Whitefriars  ;  beyond,  again,  are  blackened 
wharves,  which  gradually  degenerate  into  the  terrible  and 
utterly  indescribable  fishiness  of  Billingsgate,  and  unpoetic 
Thames  Street !  Then,  the  "  Surrey  side "  of  the  river, — 
Southwark  and  Chaucer's  Inns,  or  what  yet  remains  of  them, — 
would  form  several  delightful  excursions  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the 
Tower,  with  its  innumerable  historic  associations, — and,  perhaps, 
a  visit  to  Greenwich  in  summer  time.  The  old  churches  of 
the  City  would,  as  I  have  hinted,  take  many  days  to  explore 
thoroughly ;  the  Holborn  and  Strand  Inns  of  Court  and  of 
Chancery,  especially  the  Temple  and  Staple  Inn,  should  be 
known  and  studied  well ;  nothing  can  exceed  the  charm  of 
these  quiet  and  secluded  "  haunts  of  ancient  peace." 

Space,   however,   is   limited ;    I  have    now  said   enough    to 
give   some   idea,  even   to  the  uninitiated,   of  London's  many 

c  2 


20  THE  CULT  OF  LONDON  CHAP. 

highways  and  byways,  with  their  suggestions  and  associations. 
Yet  one  word  of  caution  I  would  add  :  London  must  be 
approached  with  reverence ;  her  cult  is  a  growth  of  years, 
rather  than  a  sudden  acquisition.  And  the  love  of  London 
stones,  once  acquired,  never  leaves  the  devotee.  Whether  he 
walk  blissfully  through  Fleet  Street  with  Johnson  and  Gold- 
smith, linger  by  the  Temple  fountain  with  Charles  Lamb  or 
Dickens,  or  traverse  the  glades  of  Kensington  Gardens  with 
Addison  and  Steele,  "where'er  he  tread  is  haunted,  holy 
ground."  Here,  on  Tower  Hill,  once  stood  spikes  supporting 
ghastly  heads  of  so-called  "  traitors " ;  there,  at  Smithfield, 
were  burned  numberless  martyrs.  Even  the  London  mud  has 
its  poetic  associations.  We  may  all  tread  the  same  road  as 
that  once  trodden  by  Rossetti  and  Keats ;  strange  road  : 

"  Miring  his  outward  steps  who  inly  trode 

The  bright  Castalian  brink  and  Latmos'  steep." 

Yes,  the  love  of  London  grows  on  the  constant  Londoner. 
He  will  not  be  long  happy  away  from  the  comforting  hum  of  the 
busy  streets,  from  the  mighty  pulse  of  the  machine.  In  absence 
his  heart  will  ever  fondly  turn  to  "  streaming  London's  central 
roar,"  to  the  spot  where,  more  than  anywhere  else,  he  may 
be  at  once  the  inheritor  of  all  the  ages. 

How  interesting  would  it  be  if  one  could  only — by  the  aid  of 
some  Mr.  Wells's  "Time  Machine" — take  a  series  of  flying 
leaps  backward  into  the  abysm  of  time  !  Strange  to  imagine 
the  experience  !  Beauty,  one  reflects,  might  be  gained  at  nearly 
every  step,  at  the  expense,  alas  !  of  sanitary  conditions,  know- 
ledge, and  utility.  Let  us,  for  a  moment,  imagine  how  the 
thing  would  be.  ...  First,  in  a  few  rapid  revolutions  of  the 
wheel,  would  disappear  the  hideous  criss-cross  of  electric  wires 
overhead,  the  ugly  tangle  of  suburban  tram-lines,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  hideous  modern  growth  of  suburbs.  .  .  . 
Another  whirl  of  the  machine,  and  every  sign  of  a  railway 
station  would  disappear,  every  repulsive  engine  shed  and  siding 


I  THE  "TIME  MACHINE"  21 

vanish  .  .  .  while  the  dull  present-day  rumble  of  the 
metropolis  would  give  place  to  a  more  indescribably  acute  and 
agonising  medley  of  sound.  .  .  .  Again  a  little  while,  and 
the  hideous  early  Victorian  buildings  would  disappear,  making 
way  for  white  Stuart  facades,  or  sober  red-brick  Dutch  palaces. 
.  .  .  With  yet  a  few  more  revolutions,  the  metropolis  will 
shrink  into  inconceivably  small  dimensions,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  the  city,  losing  its  peculiar  blue-grey  mist,  will  gradually 
brighten  and  clear — a  radiance,  unknown  to  us  children  of  a 
later  day— diffusing  itself  over  the  glistening  towers  and  domes, 
no  longer  blackened,  but  gleaming,  Venetian-like,  in  the  Tudor 
sunlight.  .  .  .  The  aspect  of  the  river  too  has  changed  ;  no  more 
ugly  steamers,  but  an  array  of  princely  barges  deck  its  waters, 
gay  with  the  bright  dresses  of  ladies  and  gallants.  ...  Its  solid 
embankments  have  crumbled  to  picturesque  overgrown  mud 
banks,  its  many  bridges  shrunk  to  one  ;  the  little  separate  towns 
of  "  London  "  and  "  Westminster  "  presenting  now  more  the 
appearance  of  rambling  villages,  adorned  by  some  palaces  and 
churches.  .  .  .  Another  turn  of  the  machine,  and  lo  !  the  impos- 
ing facades  that  adorned  the  Strand  have  in  their  turn  given  way 
to  picturesque  rows  and  streets  of  overhanging  gabled  houses 
with  blackened  cross-beams,  their  quaint  projecting  windows 
almost  meeting  over  the  narrow  streets  .  .  .  stony  streets  with 
their  crowds  of  noisy,  jostling,  foot-passengers.  .  .  .  Again  a 
long  pause  .  .  .  and  now  the  scene  changes  to  Roman  London, 
the  ancient  "  Augusta,"  with  its  powerful  walls,  its  slave  ships 
and  pinnaces,  its  mailed  warriors,  ever  in  arms  against  the  blue- 
eyed  Saxon  marauders.  Then — a  final  interval — and  we  see 
the  primitive  British  village,  its  mud  huts  erected  by  the  kindly 
shores  of  our  "  Father  Thames,"  their  smoke  peacefully  rising 
heavenwards  above  the  surrounding  marshes  and  forests. 


-  -  >*•  V  :>  cx^  --^SBS 


Waterloo  Bridge 

CHAPTER  II 

THE    RIVER 

"  Above  the  river  in  which  the  miserable  perish  and  on  which  the 
fortunate  grow  rich,  runs  the  other  tide  whose  flood  leads  on  to  fortune, 
whose  sources  are  in  the  sea  empire,  and  which  debouches  in  the  lands  of 
the  little  island  ;  above  the  river  of  the  painters  and  poets,  winding  through 
the  downs  and  meadows  of  the  rarest  of  cultivated  landscape  out  to  the 
reaches  where  the  melancholy  sea  breeds  its  fogs  and  damp  east  winds,  is 
that  of  the  merchant  and  politician,  having  its  springs  in  the  uttermost 
parts  of  the  earth,  and  pouring  out  its  golden  tribute  on  the  lands  whence 
the  other  steah  its  drift  and  ooze." — W.  J.  Still  man. 

"  Above  all  rivers,  thy  river  hath  renowne.   .   .   . 
O  !  towne  of  townes,  patrone  and  not  compare, 
London,  thou  art  the  Flour  of  Cities  all."— Dunbar. 
No   one,  be  he  very  Londoner  indeed,  has  ever  seen  the 
great  city  aright,  or  in  the  true  spirit,  if  he  have  not  made  the 


CH.  I!  THE  APPROACH  TO  LONDON  23 

journey  by  river  at  least  as  far  as  from  Chelsea  to  the  Tower 
Bridge.  From  even  such  a  commonplace  standpoint  as  the 
essentially  prosaic  Charing  Cross  Railway  Bridge  some  idea  can 
be  gained  of  the  misty  glory  of  this  highway  of  the  Nations. 
It  is  indeed,  often  one  of  these  condemned  approaches  to 
London  that  give  the  traveller  the  best  idea  of  the  vast  and 
multitudinous  city.  London  railway  approaches  are  often 
abused,  even  anathematized,  yet  surely  nowhere  is  the  curious 
picturesqueness  of  railways  so  proved  as  by  the  impressive 
approach  to  Charing  Cross  Station,  across  the  mighty  river. 
Here,  at  nightfall,  all  combines  to  aid  the  general  effect ;  the 
mysterious  darkness,  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  Embankment, 
reflected  in  the  dancing  waters,  and  cleansed  by  the  white 
moonlight.  What  approach  such  as  this  can  Paris  offer? 
But,  if  the  traveller  be  wise,  he  will  soon  seek  to  supplement 
such  initiatory  views  by  pilgrimages  on  his  own  account,  pil- 
grimages undertaken  in  all  reverence,  up  and  down  the  stream. 
For,  whatever  Mr.  Gladstone  may  have  said  of  the  omnibus  as 
a  mode  of  seeing  London,  may  be  reiterated  more  forcibly  as 
regards  the  deck  of  a  penny  steamer.  It  is  the  fashion  to  call 
London  ugly ;  Cobbett  nicknamed  it  "the  great  wen";  Grant  Allen 
has  called  it  "a  squalid  village  "  ;  and  Mme.  de  Stael  "  a  province 
in  brick."  Yet,  how  full  of  dignity  and  beauty  is  the  city  through 
which  this  wide,  turbid  river  rolls  ! — "  the  slow  Thames,"  says  a 
French  writer,  "always  grey  as  a  remembered  reflection  of 
wintry  skies."  Here,  by  day,  hangs  that  veiling  blue  mist, 
which  is  the  combined  product  of  London  fog  and  soot,  adding 
all  the  indescribable  charm  of  mystery  to  the  scene ;  and,  as 
twilight  draws  on,  the  grand  old  buildings  loom  up,  vaguely 
dark,  against  the  sky,  their  added  blackness  of  soot  giving  a 
suggestion  as  of  solidity  and  antiquity ;  that  poetic  time  of 
twilight,  "  when,"  as  Mr.  Whistler  puts  it. 


"  The  evening  mist  clothes  the  riverside  with  poetry,  as  with  a  veil,  and 
the  poor  buildings  lose  themselves  in  the  dim  sky,  and  the  tall  chimneys 


24  OUR  "FATHER  THAMES"  CHAP. 

become  campanili,  and  the  warehouses  are  palaces  in  the  night,  and  the 
whole  city  hangs  in  the  heavens,  and  fairyland  is  before  us." 

At  night,  the  scene  changes :  the  vast  Embankment  shines 
with  lamps  all  a-glitter,  and  behind  them  the  myriad  and  deceit- 
ful "  lights  of  London "  twinkle  like  a  magician's  enchanted 
palace. 

And  it  is  altogether  in  the  fitness  of  things  that  the  river 
should  be  both  introduction  and  entrance  gate,  so  to  speak,  of 
modern  London.  For  it  is  the  river,  it  is  our  "  Father 
Thames,"  indeed,  that  has  made  London  what  it  is.  In  our 
childhood  we  used  to  learn  in  dull  geography  books,  as  insep- 
arable addition  to  the  name  of  any  city,  that  it  was  "  situated  " 
on  such-and-such  a  river  ;  facts  that  we  then  saw  little  interest 
in  committing  to  memory,  but,  nevertheless  vastly  important ; 
how  important,  we  see  from  this  city  of  London.  For  London 
is,  and  was,  primarily  a  seaport.  In  Sir  Walter  Besant's  inter 
esting  pages  may  be  read  the  story  of  the  early  settlers—  Briton, 
Roman,  Saxon,  Norman — who  successively  founded  their 
infant  settlements  on  this  marshy  site,  and  had  here  their 
primitive  wharves,  quays,  and  trading  ships  for  hides,  cattle,  and 
merchandise.  It  is  the  river,  more  than  anything  else,  that  re- 
calls the  past  history  of  London.  For  London,  ever  increasing, 
ever  rebuilt,  has  buried  most  of  her  eventful  past  in  an  oblivion 
far  deeper  than  that  of  Herculaneum.  Nothing  destroys 
antiquity  like  energy  ;  nothing  blots  out  the  old  like  the  new. 
London,  ever  rising,  like  the  phoenix,  from  her  own  ashes,  has 
by  the  intense  vitality  of  her  "  to-days  "  always  obliterated  her 
u  yesterdays."  It  is  only  in  dead  or  sleeping  towns  that  the 
ashes  of  the  past  can  be  preserved  in  their  integrity,,  and  Lon- 
don has  ever  been  intensely  alive.  Yet,  gazing  on  the  silvery 
flow  of  the  river,  we  can  imagine  the  Roman  embankment,  the 
hanging  gardens,  that  once  stretched  from  St.  Paul's  to  the 
Tower;  the  Roman  city,  with  its  forums  and  basilicas,  that 
once  crowned  prosaic  Ludgate  Hill— Roman  pinnace,  Briton 
coracle,  Saxon  ship,  Tudor  vessel — we  can  see  them  all  in  their 


ii  "PENNY  STEAMERS"  25 

turn— crowned  by  the  spectacle  of  Queen  Elizabeth  in  her 
gaily  hung  state  barge,  with  her  royal  procession ;  or,  in  more 
mournful  key,  her  body,  on  its  death-canopy-  a  barge  "  black 
as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stern  to  stem,"  on  that  sad  occasion 

when 

"  The  Queen  did  come  by  water  to  Whitehall. 
The  oars  at  every  stroke  did  teares  let  fall." 

If  in  the  crowded  day  of  London  -  with  the  shouting  of  bargees, 
the  whistle  of  steam  tugs,  and  the  puffing  of  the  smoke  belching 
trains  overhead,  indulgence  in  such  dreams  is  well-nigh  im- 
possible,— in  the  mysterious  night,  when  the  slow  misty  moon 
of  London  climbs,  it  is  easy,  even  from  an  alcove  of  Waterloo 
Bridge,  to  indulge  the  fancies  of 

"  That  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude." 

The  so-called  "  penny  steamers"  of  London,  which  run, 
during  the  summer  months,  at  very  cheap  rates  between  Lon- 
don Bridge  and  Chelsea,  form  the  best  way  of  seeing  and 
appreciating  the  vast  city.  For  those  who  do  not  mind  rather 
close  contact  with  "the  masses  " — braying  accordions,  jostling 
fish-porters,  sticky  little  boys,  and  other  inseparable  adjuncts  of 
a  crowd  whose  "  coats  are  corduroy  and  hands  are  shrimpy  " 
—this  mode  of  becoming  acquainted  with  London  will  be  found 
very  satisfactory.  The  ways  of  the  said  steamers  are  often,  it  is 
true,  somewhat  erratic ;  yet  if,  on  a  warm  June  day,  the  stranger 
go  down  to  the  river  in  faith,  his  expectancy  will  generally  be 
rewarded.  Up  comes  the  puffing,  creaky  little  tug,  making  the 
tiny  landing  stage  vibrate  with  the  sudden  shock  of  contact ; 
there  is  an  immediate  rush  to  embark,  and,  on  a  fine  day,  you 
are,  at  first,  happy  if  you  get  standing  room.  Cruikshank's 
pictures,  Dickens's  sketches  -  how  suggestive  of  these  is  the 
motley  crowd  of  faces  that  line  the  boat, —faces  on  which  the 
eternal  "  struggle  for  life  "  has  printed  lines,  as  it  may  be,  of 
carking  care,  of  blatant  self-satisfaction,  of  crime  and  degra 


26  TURNER  AND  CHELSEA  CHAP. 

dation.  To  quote  William  Blake,  the  poet-painter, — a  Londoner, 
too,  of  the  Londoners  : 

"  I  wander  through  each  chartered  street 
Near  where  the  chartered  Thames  does  flow, 
A  mark  in  every  face  I  meet, 
Marks  of  weakness,  marks  of  woe." 

The  fine,  broad  Chelsea  reach  of  the  river,  looking  up  to- 
wards Fulham  from  the  Albert  chain-bridge,  is  wonderfully 
picturesque.  Here,  especially  on  autumn  nights,  may  be  seen 
in  all  their  splendour  the  brilliant  sunsets  that  Turner  loved  to 
paint,  and  that,  propped  up  on  his  pillow,  he  turned  his  dying 
eyes  to  see.  The  ancient  and  unassuming  little  riverside  house 
where  Turner  spent  his  last  days  is  still  standing  ;  but  its  tenure 
is  uncertain,  and  it  may  soon  vanish.  It  stands  (as  No.  119)  — 
towards  the  western  end  of  Cheyne  Walk  —  the  walk  that  begins 
in  the  east  so  magnificently,  and  decreases,  as  regards  its  man- 
sions, in  size  and  splendour  as  it  approaches  the  old  historic 
red-brick  church  of  Chelsea.  Yet,  small  as  Turner's  riverside 
abode  is,  it  is  more  celebrated  than  any  of  its  neighbours,  for 
it  was  here  that  the  greatest  landscape  painter  of  our  time  lived. 
Here,  along  the  shores  of  the  river,  flooded  at  eve  "  with  waves 
of  dusky  gold,"  the  shabby  old  man  with  such  wonderful  gifts 
used  to  wander  in  search  of  the  skies  and  effects  he  loved  ;  here 
he  was  hailed  by  cheeky  street  arabs,  as  "  Puggy  Booth  "  (the 
legend  of  the  neighbourhood  being  that  he  was  a  certain  retired 
and  broken  down  old  "  Admiral  Booth  ").  Here  he  sat  on  the 
railed  in  house  roof  to  see  the  sun  rise  over  the  river,  and  here, 
when  too  weak  to  move,  his  landlady  used  to  wheel  his  chair 
towards  the  window  that  he  might  see  the  skies  he  so  loved-" 
"  The  Sun  is  God,"  were  almost  his  last  words.  Thus,  he  who 
as  a  boy  of  Maiden  Lane  had  spent  his  early  years  on  the  river 
near  London  Bridge — by  the  Pool  of  London,  with  its  wharves 
and  shipping— died,  faithful  to  his  early  loves,  in  a  small 
Chelsea  riverside  cottage.  The  row  of  irregular  riverside 


ii  RIVER  MISTS  AND  SOOT  27 

houses,  of  which  Turner's  cottage  is  one,  becomes  more  palatial 
lower  down,  across  Oakley  Street.  In  summer,  what  more 
lovely  than  the  view  from  these  houses,  over  the  shining 
Chelsea  reach,  towards  the  feathery  greenness  of  distant  Batter- 
sea  Park  ?  a  view  which,  even  beyond  the  park  limits,  not  even 
the  too-conspicuous  sky-signs  or  factory  chimneys  on  the 
further  shore  can  altogether  abolish  or  destroy.  So  many 
things  in  London,  ugly  in  themselves,  are  lent  "a  glory  by  their 
being  far  "  ;  and  even  Messrs.  Doulton's  factory  chimneys,  seen 
through  the  blue-grey  river  mist,  have,  like  St.  Pancras  Station, 
often  the  air  of  some  gigantic  fortress.  This  same  blue-grey 
mist  of  London,  especially  near  the  river,  is  rarely  ever  entirely 
absent.  Chemists  may  tell  you  that  it  is  merely  carbon,  a  pro- 
duct of  the  soot,  but  what  does  that  matter?  In  its  own  place 
and  way  it  is  beautiful.  The  heresy  has  before  now  been 
ventured,  that  London  would  not  be  half  so  picturesque  if  it 
were  cleaner  ;  and  from  the  river  this  fact  is  driven  home  more 
than  ever  to  the  lover  of  the  beautiful.  Blackened  wharves, 
that  through  the  dimmed  light  take  on  all  the  air  of  "  magic 
casements," — great  bridges,  invisible  till  close  at  hand,  that 
loom  down  suddenly  on  the  passing  steamer  with  the  roar  of 
many  feet,  a  rattle  of  many  wheels,  a  rumble  of  many  trains  ; 
vast  Charing-Cross  vaguely  seen  overhead  -  immense,  grandiose, 
darkening  all  the  stream ;  the  Venetian  white  tower  of  St. 
Magnus,  gleaming  all  at  once  before  blackened  St.  Paul's  ;  and, 
most  popular  of  all  London  views,  the  tall  Clock  Tower  of  the 
Houses  of  Parliament,  with  its  long  terraced  wall,  reflecting  its 
shining  lines  in  the  broad  waters.  As  ivy  and  creepers  adorn 
a  building,  so  does  the  respectable  grime  of  ages  clothe  London 
stones  as  with  a  garment  of  beauty. 

The  "respectable  grime  of  ages"  can  hardly  however  be 
said  yet  to  cover  the  newest  Picture  Gallery  of  London, 
glimmering  ghostlike  by  the  waterside,  Sir  Henry  Tate's 
magnificent  and  splendidly  housed  gift,  which  rises  whitely, 
like  some  Greek  Temple  of  Victory,  amid  the  dirty,  dingy 


28  THE  TATE  GALLERY  CHAP. 

wharves,  and  generally  slummy  surroundings  of  the  debatable 
ground  that  divides  the  river-frontages  of  Pimlico  and  West- 
minster. The  changes  of  Time  are  curious.  Here,  where 
once  stood  Millbank  Penitentiary,  now  rises  a  stately  Palace 
adorned  by  pillars,  porticoes  and  statues ;  wherein  are 
enshrined  some  of  the  nation's  most  precious  treasures,  all 
the  master-pieces  of  the  modern  school  of  English  Art.  Sir 
Henry  Tate,  a  "  merchant  prince  "  of  whom  the  country  may 
well  be  proud,  was  a  large  sugar  refiner,  and  we  owe  this 
imposing  building,  with  a  large  part  of  its  contents,  to  those 
uninspiring  wooden  boxes,  so  familiar  to  us  for  so  many  years 
back,  labelled  "  Tate's  Cube  Sugar." 

The  interior  of  the  Tate  Gallery  (its  proper  denomination 
is,  I  believe,  "the  National  Gallery  of  British  Art,")  is  very 
delightfully  planned.  A  pretty  fountain  fills  the  central  hall 
of  the  gallery  under  the  dome;  an  adornment  as  refreshing 
as  it  is  unexpected.  For  London,  the  home  of  riches,  is 
strangely  niggardly  with  her  fountains.  Yet  Rome,  the  city  of 
fountains,  had  to  bring  all  her  water  for  many  miles,  and  over 
endless  aqueducts  !  The  immediate  riverside  surroundings  of 
the  Tate  Gallery  are,  as  described,  hardly  grandiose ;  yet  the 
timber- wharves  and  stone-cutters'  sheds  that  here  share  the 
muddy  banks  with  the  ubiquitous  tribe  of  London  "  Mudlarks," 
are  not  without  their  picturesque  "  bits."  Old  boats  sometimes 
reach  here  their  final  uses ;  and  even  portions  of  old  derelicts, 
like  the  "  Te'me'raire,"  often  find  their  way  here  at  last.  Witness 
advertisements  like  the  following : 

FIRES. — Logs  of  old  oak  and  ship  timber,  from  Old  Navy  ships  broken 
up,  in  suitable  sizes,  for  sitting-room  use,  so  famous  for  beautifully  coloured 

flames,   can  only  be  obtained  from  the  ship  breaking  yard   of Baltic 

Wharf,  Millbank,  S.W. 

It  is,  however,  only  the  wharves  and  the  mudlarks  that  are 
visible  from  the  river  itself;  for  the  quaint  gates  of  these 
timber-yards,  opening  on  to  the  Grosvenor  Road,  and  sur- 


ii  THE  HOUSES  OF  PARLIAMENT  29 

mounted  by  their  "  signs  "  in  the  shape  of  ghostly  white  figure- 
heads— the  figure-heads  of  real  ships — are  only  visible  to  those 
who  make  their  way  along  this  mysterious  region  by  land. 
These  colossal  creatures,  indeed,  projecting  often  far  into  the 
road,  pull  up  the  pedestrian  with  such  alarming  and  human 
suddenness  that  it  would  surely  require,  in  the  uninitiated,  a 
strong  mind  and  a  good  conscience  to  travel  this  way  alone  on 
a  dark  night. 

The  keynote  of  London  is  ever  its  close  juxtaposition  of 
splendour  and  misery,  "  velvet  and  rags."  Therefore,  after 
skirting  the  shore  of  Millbank,  it  strikes  the  Londoner  as 
quite  natural,  and  in  the  usual  order  of  things,  that  he  should 
suddenly  and  without  any  preface  find  his  vessel  gliding,  in  an 
abrupt  hush,  underneath  the  terrace-wall  of  the  most  well- 
known  and  most  be-photographed  edifice  in  London  ;  under  the 
high  vertical  wall,  with  its  softly  lapping  waters,  that  guards  the 
terrace  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  Classic  retreat,  where 
none  but  the  specially  bidden  may  enter !  The  great  towers, 
with  the  vast  building  they  surmount,  darken,  for  a  moment, 
all  the  stream  by  the  intense  shadow  they  cast,  to  mirror 
themselves  anew  in  charming  proportion  as  we  descend  the 
stream  and  they  recede. 

Exactly  opposite  the  Houses  of  Parliament  are  those 
curious  seven-times-repeated  red-brick  projections  of  St. 
Thomas's  Hospital,  which  are  so  prominent  an  object  from  the 
Terrace,  that  a  fair  American  visitor,  while  taking  her  tea 
there,  is  said  to  have  once  innocently  inquired  :  "  Are  those 
the  mansions  of  your  aristocracy  ? "  Mr.  Hare  unkindly 
suggests  that  their  chief  ornament,  a  "  row  of  hideous  urns 
upon  the  parapet,  seems  waiting  for  the  ashes  of  the  patients 
inside." 

A  little  higher,  on  the  Surrey  side,  is  the  historic  Lambeth 
Palace,  for  nearly  seven  hundred  years  the  residence  of  the 
Archbishops  of  Canterbury  : 

"  Lambeth,  envy  of  each  band  and  gown," 


30  LAMBETH  PALACE  CHAP. 

says  Pope  truly.  But  the  gifts  of  Fortune  are,  alas  !  seldom 
ungrudging ;  and,  sad  thought !  by  the  time  the  poor  Arch- 
bishops have  reached  the  zenith  of  fame  and  comfort  in  their 
Lambeth  paradise,  their  multifarious  duties  must  effectually 
prevent  their  ever  having  time  thoroughly  to  enjoy  their 
"garden  of  peace."  It  is  a  lovely  home,  and  commands 
perfect  views.  Quite  Venetian-like,  when  night's  canopy  has 
fallen,  do  the  lights  of  Westminster  Palace  appear  .from  the 
Lambeth  shore ;  the  lighted  Tower,  which  proclaims  to  all  the 
world  the  fact  that  Parliament  is  sitting,  reflected  like  a  solitary 
full  moon  in  the  dark  transparency  of  the  waters.  Lambeth 
Palace  is,  indeed,  a  charming  spot,  both  for  its  views  up  and 
down  the  river  and  for  its  associations.  In  all  its  squareness 
of  darkened  red  brick,  it  is  very  picturesque  ;  the  gateway 
with  its  Tudor  arch,  the  chapel,  and  the  so-called  "  Lollards' 
Tower,"  are,  besides  being  historically  interesting,  fine  subjects 
for  an  artist.  At  the  gateway  an  ancient  custom  is  observed : 

"At  this  gate  the  dole  irnmemorially  given  to  the  poor  by  the  Arch- 
bishops of  Canterbury  is  constantly  distributed.  It  consists  of  fifteen 
quartern  loaves,  nine  stone  of  beef,  and  five  shillings'  worth  of  half-pence, 
divided  into  three  equal  portions,  and  distributed  every  Sunday,  Tuesday, 
and  Thursday,  among  thirty  poor  parishioners  of  Lambeth ;  the  beef 
being  made  into  broth  and  served  in  pitchers." 

In  the  Lollards'  Tower  are  some  curious  relics  of  the  barbar- 
ous tortures  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  and  in  the  guard-room,  or 
dining  hall  of  the  Palace,  is  a  series  of  portraits  of  all  the 
Archbishops  from  Cranmer  to  Benson.  The  modern  and 
residential  portion  of  the  Palace,  in  the  Tudor  style,  is  con- 
tained in  the  inner  court ;  it  was  rebuilt  by  Archbishop  Howley 
in  1820.  Howley  was  the  last  Archbishop  who  lived  here  in 
state  and  kept  open  house  ;  "  the  grand  hospitalities  of  Lam- 
beth have  perished,"  as  Douglas  Jerrold  said,  "  but  its  charities 
live."  The  ancient  portions  of  the  palace  have  known  many 
vicissitudes  of  fortune ;  Cranmer  adorned  his  house,  and  loved 
to  beautify  his  garden ;  Wat  Tyler  and  his  rebels  plundered  the 


ii  ST.   MARY'S,  LAMBETH  31 

palace  and  beheaded  Sudbury,  its  then  archbishop  :  and  Laud, 
who  had  a  hobby  for  stained  glass,  filled  the  chapel  windows 
with  beautiful  specimens,  which  were  all  subsequently  smashed 
by  the  Puritans.  The  palace,  after  having  been  used  succes- 
sively as  a  prison,  a  place  of  revel,  and  a  garrison  stronghold, 
now  enjoys  all  the  serenity  of  old  age  and  quiet  fortunes ;  its 
solid  red  brick,  which  time  darkens  so  prettily,  looking  ever 
across  the  waters  in  calm  dignity  towards  the  taller  stones  of 
Westminster, — the  spiritual  contrasted  with  the  temporal. 

The  tower  of  the  ancient  church  of  St.  Mary,  Lambeth,  close 
by  the  Palace,  is  memorable  as  the  shelter  of  Queen  Mary  of 
Modena,  James  II.'s  unfortunate  wife,  on  the  dramatic  occasion 
of  her  flight  from  Whitehall  with  her  infant  son  (the  "  Old " 
Pretender),  on  a  wild  December  night  of  1688  : 

"  The  party  stole  down  the  back  stairs  (of  Whitehall),  and  embarked  in 
an  open  skiff.  It  was  a  miserable  voyage.  The  night  was  bleak  ;  the 
rain  fell  ;  the  wind  roared  ;  the  water  was  rough  ;  at  length  the  boat  reached 
Lambeth ;  and  the  fugitives  landed  near  an  inn,  where  a  coach  and 
horses  were  in  waiting.  Some  time  elapsed  before  the  horses  could  be 
harnessed.  Mary,  afraid  that  her  face  might  be  known,  would  not  enter 
the  house.  She  remained  with  her  child,  cowering  for  shelter  from  the 
storm  under  the  tower  of  Lambeth  Church,  and  distracted  by  terror 
whenever  the  ostler  approached  her  with  his  lantern.  Two  of  her  women 
attended  her,  one  who  gave  suck  to  the  Prince,  and  one  whose  office  was  to 
rock  the  cradle  ;  but  they  could  be  of  little  use  to  their  mistress  ;  for  both 
were  foreigners  who  could  hardly  speak  the  English  language,  and  who 
shuddered  at  the  rigour  of  the  English  climate.  The  only  consolatory 
circumstance  was  that  the  little  boy  was  well,  and  uttered  not  a  single  cry. 
At  length  the  coach  was  ready.  The  fugitives  reached  Gravesend  safely, 
and  embarked  in  the  yacht  which  waited  for  them." — A/acatilay. 

St.  Mary's  is  the  mother  church  of  the  manor  and  parish,  and 
its  tower  dates  from  1377  : 

"  In  this  church  is  a  curious  '  Pedlar's  Window,'  with  a  romantic  story 
attached  to  it.  When  the  church  was  founded,  it  is  said  that  a  pedlar  left 
an  acre  of  land  to  the  parish,  on  condition  that  a  picture  of  himself,  his 
pack  and  his  dog,  should  be  preserved  in  the  church.  This  was  accordingly 
done  ;  the  pedlar  was  commemorated  in  the  glass  of  the  window,  and  the 


32  THE  VICTORIA  EMBANKMENT  CHAP. 

value  of  the  acre,  at  first  2s.  &d.,  increased  till  in  our  day  it  is  worth  .£1000 
a  year.  In  1884,  some  local  iconoclasts  actually  removed  the  pedlar  from 
the  window,  to  put  up  modern  glass  to  the  relatives  of  certain  officials. 
Popular  indignation,  however,  has  since  reinstated  the  injured  pedlar,  with 
his  pack  and  dog,  in  their  place." 

But  Lambeth,  however  charming  and  historic,  is  still  "  the 
Surrey  Side  ",  and  the  glories  of  the  Albert  Embankment  pale 
before  those  of  the  Victoria  Embankment,  one  of  the  greatest 
London  improvements  of  the  century.  Of  course  it  has  its 
critics, — of  the  order  who  cavil  at  the  poor  Romans  for  em- 
banking their  devastating  yellow  Tiber.  But  it  is  the  fashion 
for  us  to  abuse  our  London  monuments,  and  to  deride  them 
as  the  work  of  a  "  nation  of  shopkeepers."  The  Londoner 
rarely  approves  of  anything  new  or  even  modern.  Of  the  Chelsea 
Embankment,  all  that  Mr.  Hare  says  is  that  "  it  has  robbed  us  of 
the  water  stairs  to  the  Botanic  Garden,  given  by  Sir  Hans  Sloane." 
Does  not  even  Mr.  Ruskin  fall  foul  of  the  innumerable  straight 
lines  of  the  Palace  of  Westminster,  and  of  its  stately  Clock 
Tower,  as  testifying  to  the  sad  want  of  imagination  shown  by 
the  modern  English  architect  ?  (But  Mr.  Ruskin  must  surely 
that  day  have  been  in  search  for  a  windmill  to  tilt  against,  for 
the  abused  "  straight  lines  "  do  not  prevent  this  being  one  of 
the  loveliest  of  London  views.)  And  does  not  M.  Taine  pour 
the  vials  of  his  wrath  on  to  the  great  river  Palace  of  Somerset 
House,  with  its  "  blackened  porticoes  filled  with  soot "  ? 
"  Poor  Greek  architecture,"  he  adds  compassionately,  "  what  is 
it  doing  in  such  a  climate  ? "  Evidently  the  idea  of  the 
artistic  value  of  soot,  to  which  I  have  already  alluded,  had 
not  occurred  to  him. 

The  noble  Victoria  Embankment  now  runs  where  of  old,  in 
Elizabethan  times,  ran  a  glittering,  almost  Venetian,  river- 
frontage  of  palaces.  And  where  the  old  palaces  stood  in  Tudor 
days,  stand  now  enormous  hotels — the  palaces  of  our  own  day 
— each  newer  hotel  in  its  turn  eclipsing  the  other  in  size, 
magnificence,  expense.  The  picturesque  "Savoy,"  with  its 


n  THE  EMBANKMENT  HOTELS  33 

river  balconies,  the  stately  "  Cecil,"  with  its  wonderful  ban- 
queting halls,  and,  further  from  the  river,  the  spacious 
"Metropole,"  the  "Grand,"  the  "Victoria."  All  these  hotels 
are  so  recent  as  to  impress  one  fact  upon  us — the  fact  that 
London  has  really  only  lately  become  a  tourist  haunt. 
Statistics,  indeed,  show  now  that  London  attracts  more  visitors 
than  any  other  great  European  town.  Twenty-five  years  ago, 
it  was  as  hard  to  find  a  good,  clean,  and  thoroughly  satisfactory 
London  hotel,  as  it  was  to  get  a  cup  of  tea  for  less  than  six- 
pence ;  or,  indeed,  a  good  one  at  all  !  But  times  have  changed. 
Big  hotels  now,  like  flats,  threaten  to  be  overdone.  We  can 
well  imagine  the  disappointment  of  the  foreign  visitor  to 
London  on  discovering  the  names  and  uses  of  the  fine  build- 
ings that  adorn  the  river  front  between  Westminster  and  Black- 
friars.  "  What,"  he  or  she  may  ask,  "  is  that  imposing  struc- 
ture with  Nuremberg-like  green  roofs,  towering  over  the  trees 
of  the  Embankment  Gardens?"  "That,  Sir  or  Madam," 
answers  politely  the  lady  guide  (for  it  is  of  course  a  charming 
and  very  certificated  lady  guide  who  "  personally  conducts " 
the  party),  "  is  Whitehall  Court,  a  building  let  out  in  high  class 
flats."  "And  what,"  continues  the  crushed  tourist,  "is  that 
turreted,  buttressed,  red-brick  edifice  ?  Probably  some  rich 
nobleman's  whim  ? "  "  Those,  Madam,  are  the  new  build- 
ings of  Scotland  Yard,  recently  designed  by  Mr.  Norman  Shaw, 
one  of  the  most  famous  of  our  modern  architects."  "And 
what  are  those  Venetian-like  balconies,  all  hung  with  greenery 
and  flowers  ? "  "  They  belong,  Madam,  to  the  Savoy  and 
Cecil  Hotels.  At  the  Savoy  you  may  get  a  very  nice  dinner 
for  a  guinea ;  they  have  a  wonderful  chef;  and  in  the  enor- 
mous dining-hall  of  the  Cecil,  most  of  the  great  public  banquets 
are  given."  "  Truly,  a  nation  of  shopkeepers,"  the  foreign 
visitor  will  re-echo  sadly,  as  she  dismisses  her  "  lady  guide." 

There  is,  I  maintain,  no  finer  walk  in  the  world  than  that 
along  the  Victoria  Embankment,  from  Blackfriars  to  West- 
minster. You  may  walk  it  every  day  of  the  year,  and  every 

D 


Sightseers. 


CH.  ii  SOMERSET  HOUSE  35 

day  see  some  new,  strange  and  beautiful  effect  of  light,  of 
water,  of  cloud.  In  midsummer,  when  the  long  row  of  plane 
trees  offer  a  welcome  shade  and  relief  of  greenery,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  watch  the  slow  barges  pass  and  repass ;  in  autumn, 
when  red  and  saffron  sunsets  flood  all  the  west  with  light ;  in 
midwinter,  when,  sometimes,  great  blocks  of  ice  line  the  turbid 
stream.  One  winter,  not  long  past,  when  the  Thames  was  all 
but  frozen  over,  it  was  a  curious  and  interesting  sight  to  watch 
the  crowd  of  sea-gulls,  driven  inshore  by  the  intense  cold, 
making  their  temporary  home  on  the  ice,  and  fed  all  day  with 
raw  meat  and  bread  by  thousands  of  sympathizing  Londoners. 
Some  of  the  birds  had  almost  become  tame  when  their  com- 
pulsory visit  came  to  an  end. 

The  river,  in  old  pre-embankment  days,  flowed  at  the  foot  of 
the  curious  ancient  stone  archway  called  "York  Stairs,"  that 
stranded  water-gate  of  old  York  House,  which  stands,  lonely 
and  neglected,  in  a  corner  of  the  Embankment  Gardens.  It 
has,  however,  survived,  and  that,  in  London,  is  always  some- 
thing. Its  long  buried,  and  now  excavated,  columns  show  the 
ancient  level  of  the  river,  and  the  height  to  which  the  present 
Embankment  has  been  raised.  The  Palace  of  York  House,  to 
which  it  was  the  river-gate,  has  gone  the  way  of  all  palaces  ; 
its  ruins  (as  all  ruins  must  ever  be  in  London),  are  thickly 
built  over.  Indeed,  Somerset  House  is  almost  the  only  palace 
left  to  tell  of  the  ancient  river-side  glories,  glories  of  which 
Herri ck  wrote : 

"  I  send,  I  send,  here  my  supremest  kiss 
To  thee,  my  silver-footed  Tamasis, 
No  more  shall  I  re-iterate  thy  strand 
Whereon  so  many  goodly  structures  stand." 

Even  Somerset  House  is  merely  an  old  palace  rebuilt,  for  the 
present  edifice  is  not  much  more  than  a  century  old.  Build- 
ings in  London  tend  to  become  utilitarian ;  and  Royalty, 
besides,  has  deserted  the  City  for  the  West  End.  So  the 
ancient  Palace  of  the  Lord  Protector  Somerset,  that  Palace 

D  2 


CLEOPATRA'S  NEEDLE" 


CHAP, 


that  he  destroyed  so  much  to  build,  spent  such  vast  sums  on, 
and  yet  never  lived  in,  but  had  his  head  cut  off  instead  ; 
the  Palace  that  used  to  be  the  residence  of  the  wives 
of  the  Stuart  Kings,  as  described  by  Pepys,  is  now  superseded 
by  the  vast  Inland  Revenue  Office,  with  its  myriad  suites, 
corridors,  chambers.  Truly,  a  change  typical  of  our  busy  and 
practical  era  ! 

Somerset  House  occupies  the  site  of  the  older  palace,  a  site 
almost  equal  in  area  to  Russell  Square.  But  the  older  palace, 
as  befitted  the  "  Dower  House  "  of  the  Queens  of  England 
had  gardens  that  extended  along  the  river-shore.  It  was  in 
Old  Somerset  House  that  Charles  II. 's  poor  neglected  Queen, 
Catherine  of  Braganza,  used  to  sit  all  night  playing  at 
"  ombre,"  a  game  which  she  had  herself  imported  from  Por- 
tugal ;  and  it  was  here,  in  1685,  that  three  of  her  household 
were  charged  with  decoying  Sir  Edmondsbury  Godfrey  into  the 
precincts  of  the  palace,  and  there  strangling  him.  The  wide 
courtyard  of  the  interior  has  a  bronze  allegorical  group  by 
Bacon,  of  George  III.  mixed  up  with  "  Father  Thames." 
Queen  Charlotte,  apparently  rather  resenting  the  ugliness  of 
the  representation,  said  to  the  sculptor,  "  Why  did  you  make 
so  frightful  a  figure  ? "  The  artist  was  ready  with  his  reply. 
"  Art,"  he  said,  bowing,  "  cannot  always  effect  what  is  ever 
within  the  reach  of  Nature  —the  union  of  beauty  and  majesty." 
I  myself  must  confess  to  some  sympathy  with  Queen 
Charlotte  ;  but  the  art  of  her  day  had  ever  a  tendency  to 
efflorescent  excrescence. 

On  the  river's  very  brink,  a  little  higher  up  than  Somerset 
House  and  its  adjacent  hotels,  Cleopatra's  Needle,  that 
"great  rose-marble  monolith,"  stands  guarded  by  two  bronze 
sphinxes  on  a  pediment  of  steps,  backed  by  the  Embank- 
ment and  the  trees  of  its  gardens.  The  monolith  is  here 
in  strange  and  novel  surroundings.  What  ruins  of  empires 
and  dynasties  has  not  this  ancient  Egyptian  obelisk  seen ! 


ii  HISTORY  OF  THE  OBELISK  37 

We   poor   human  beings   soon    live    out  our   little   day,    and 

are  gone : 

"  The  Eternal  Saki  from  the  Bowl  hath  poured 
Millions  of  bubbles  like  us,  and  will  pour — 

while  this  senseless  block  of  stone  lives  for  ever,  regardless  of 
the  tides  of  humanity  that  ebb  and  flow  ceaselessly  about  its 
feet.  Has  it  not  been  a  "  silent  witness  "  of  the  pageants  of 
the  magnificent  Pharaohs  of  the  Eighteenth  Dynasty?  Its 
hieroglyphics  record  its  erection  by  Thotmes  III.,  before  the 
Temple  of  the  Sun  in  On  (Heliopolis),  where  it  remained  for 
the  first  1600  years  of  its  existence,  and  (says  Mr.  Hare) 
witnessed  the  slavery  and  imprisonment  of  the  patriarch  Joseph. 
The  obelisk  has  had  a  stronge  and  eventful  history.  Removed 
to  Alexandria  shortly  before  the  Christian  era,  it  was  never 
erected  there,  but  lay  for  years  prone  in  the  sand.  Then, 
in  1820,  Mahomet  Ali  presented  it  to  the  British  nation; 
with,  however,  no  immediate  result.  For,  the  difficulties  of 
removal  being  great,  no  advantage  was  taken  of  the  offer, 
till,  in  1877,  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir)  Erasmus  Wilson  gave  the 
necessary  funds,  amounting  to  ;£  10,000.  A  special  cylinder 
boat  was  made  for  the  obelisk,  but  even  with  its  removal  its 
adventures  were  not  ended,  for,  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  the  vessel 
encountered  a  terrific  storm,  and  the  crew  of  the  ship  that 
towed  it,  in  peril  of  their  lives,  cut  it  adrift.  For  days  it  was 
lost,  till  a  passing  steamer  happened  to  sight  the  strange-looking 
object  and  picked  it  up,  earning  salvage  on  it. 

The  granite  is  said  to  be  slowly  disintegrating  and  the 
hieroglyphics  therefore  becoming  less  deeply  scored,  by  the 
action  of  the  London  smoke  and  mist — the  mist  glorified 
poetically  by  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  in  his  "  Ballade  of  Cleopatra's 

Needle"; 

"  Ye  giant  shades  of  Ra  and  Turn, 
Ye  ghosts  of  gods  Egyptian, 
If  murmurs  of  our  planet  come 
To  exiles  in  the  precincts  wan 


38  VIEW  FROM  CHARING-CROSS  BRIDGE  CHAP. 

Where,  fetish  or  Olympian, 
To  help  or  harm  no  more  ye  list, 
Look  down,  if  look  ye  may,  and  scan 
This  monument  in  London  mist  ! 

"  Behold,  the  hieroglyphs  are  dumb, 
That  once  were  read  of  him  that  ran 
When  seistron,  cymbal,  trump,  and  drum, 
Wild  music  of  the  Bull  began  ; 
When  through  the  chanting  priestly  clan 
Walk'd  Ramses,  and  the  high  sun  kiss'd 
This  stone,  with  blessing  scored  and  Iran — 
This  monument  in  London  mist. 

"  The  stone  endures  though  gods  be  numb  ; 
Though  human  effort,  plot,  and  plan 
Be  sifted,  drifted,  like  the  sum 
Of  sands  in  wastes  Arabian. 
What  king  may  deem  him  more  than  man, 
What  priest  says  Faith  can  Time  resist 
While  this  endures  to  mark  their  span — 
This  monument  in  London  mist  ?  "- 

It  has  been  objected  that  Cleopatra's  needle  ought  to  have 
been  placed  somewhere  else ;  for  instance,  in  the  centre  of  the 
Tilt  Yard,  opposite  the  Horse  Guards.  But  it  is,  as  I  said, 
typical  of  Londoners  to  find  fault  with  their  monuments  ;  and  it 
is  difficult  to  agree  with  the  writer  who  described  it  as  in  its 
present  position  "  adorning  nothing,  emphasising  nothing,  and 
by  nothing  emphasised."  M.  Gabriel  Mourey,  for  instance, 
who,  though  a  Frenchman,  is  also  a  lover  of  London,  brings  it 
very  charmingly  into  his  "  impression "  of  the  scene  from 
Charing-Cross  Bridge : 

"  I  go  every  morning  to  Charing-Cross  Bridge,  to  gaze  on  the  '  magical 
effects '  produced  by  fog  and  mist  on  the  Thames.  The  buildings  on  the 
shores  have  vanished  ;  there,  where  recently  seethed  an  enormous  conglo- 
meration of  roofs,  chimneys,  the  perpetual  encroachment  of  interminable 
fa9ades,  all  that  insentient  life  of  stones, — heaped  to  lodge  human  toil, 
suffering,  happiness, — seems  to  be  now  only  a  desert  of  far-reaching  waters. 
The  river  has  immeasurably  widened,  has  extended  its  shores  to  the 
infinite.  Such  immensity  is  terrible.  .  .  .  the  atmosphere  is  heavy  ;  there 


ii  LORD  TENNYSON  39 

is  a  conscious  weight  around,  above,  a  weight  that  presses  down,  penetrates 
into  ears  and  mouth,  seems  even  to  hang  about  the  hair.  We  might,  indeed, 
be  existing  in  a  kind  of  nothingness,  except  for  the  perpetual  passage  of 
trains— trains  that  shake  the  floor  of  the  bridge,  and  jar  our  whole  being 
with  metallic  vibrations.  .  .  .The  wooden  sheds  of  the  landing-stage, 
backed  by  the  stone  steps  and  parapet, — with,  further  on,  the  thin  spire  of 
Cleopatra's  Needle,  an  unimagined  network  of  lines, — appear  suddenly  out 
of  nothingness  ;  it  might  be  a  fairy  city  rising  all  at  once  ;  here  are 
revealed  the  gigantic  buildings  of  the  Savoy  Hotel,  and  yonder,  farther  on, 
those  of  Somerset  House,  as  the  fog  gradually  lifts  ;  the  whole  effect  is 
suggestive  of  a  negative  under  the  chemical  action  of  the  developer.  There 
is,  however,  no  distinctness  ;  the  negative  is  a  fogged  one  ;  outlines  are 
only  distinguished  with  difficulty  ;  and  everything,  in  this  strange  and  sad 
monochrome,  seems  to  acquire  a  vast  and  altogether  fantastic  size.  The 
sky,  however,  moves  ;  thick,  ragged  clouds  unravel  themselves,  in  colour 
a  dirty  yellow  fringed  with  white  ;  they  might  well  be  great  folds  of  torn 
curtains  entangled  in  each  other,  curtains  of  dingy  wadding,  thickly  lined, 
and  edged  with  faint  gold.  But  the  light  is  too  feeble  to  reflect  itself,  and 
the  water  below  continues  to  flow  dully,  as  though  weighed  down  with  the 
burden  of  that  heavy  sky  ;  the  pleasure-steamers,  indeed,  seem  to  cleave  it 
with  painful  toil,  to  force  a  pathway,  soon  again  closed  ;  a  pathway  of 
which  scarcely  a  trace  remains,  only  a  slow,  sluggish  undulation,  soon  lost 
in  the  general  distracting  cohesion  of  all  and  everything." 

It  may  be  interesting  here  to  recall  Lord  Tennyson's  sonnet, 
and  the  story  told  of  it  by  his  son  : 

"  When  Cleopatra's  Needle  was  brought  to  London,  Stanley  asked  my 
father  to  make  some  lines  upon  it ;  to  be  engraven  on  the  base.  These 
were  put  together  by  my  father  at  once,  and  I  made  a  note  of  them  : 

Cleopatra 's   Needle. 

"  Here,  I  that  stood  in  On  beside  the  flow 
Of  sacred  Nile,  three  thousand  years  ago  ! — 
A  Pharaoh,  kingliest  of  his  kingly  race. 
First  shaped,  and  carved,  and  set  me  in  my  place. 
A  Caesar  of  a  punier  dynasty 
Thence  haled  me  toward  the  Mediterranean  sea, 
Whence  your  own  citizens,  for  their  own  renown, 
Thro'  strange  seas  drew  me  to  your  monster  town. 
I  have  seen  the  four  great  empires  disappear  ! 
I  was  when  London  was  not  !    I  am  here  !  " 


4o 


WATERLOO  BRIDGE 


CHAP. 


Waterloo  Bridge,  crossing  the  Thames  at  Somerset  House,  was 
built  by  Rennie  in  1817.  Canova  considered  it  "the  noblest 
bridge  in  the  world,  and  worth  a  visit  from  the  remotest  corners 
of  the  earth."  It  was  at  first  intended  to  call  it  the  "  Strand  " 
Bridge ;  but  it  was  eventually  named  "Waterloo,"  in  honour  of 
the  victory  just  won.  Yet  Waterloo  Bridge  is  not  without  its 


The 


Season. 


dismal  associations.  So  many  people,  for  instance,  have  com- 
mitted suicide  from  it,  that  it  has  been  called  the  "English  Bridge 
of  Sighs."  It  suggests  Hood's  ballad  of  the  "  Unfortunate  "  : 

"  The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver : 
But  not  the  dark  arch 
Or  the  black  flowing  river." 


II  MR.  RUSKIN'S  DIATRIBES  41 

Waterloo  Bridge  has  indeed  been  the  last  resource  of  many  an 
unhappy  human  moth  -  attracted  by  "  the  cruel  lights  of  Lon- 
don"—to  whom 

"  When  life  hangs  heavy,  death  remains  the  door 
To  endless  rest  beside  the  Stygian  shore." 

Dante  Rossetti,  who  painted  his  terrible  picture  of  the  lost  girl 
found  by  her  old  lover  on  a  London  bridge  at  dawning,  has 
well  realised  the  ineffable  sadness  of  the  wrecks  made  by  this 
whirlpool  of  London. 

The  Victoria  Embankment,  and  indirectly  also  this  splendid 
Waterloo  Bridge,  have  given  cause  for  one  of  the  most  eloquent 
diatribes  of  our  greatest  aesthetic  critic.  Mr.  Ruskin,  though 
he  cannot  but  admire  the  vast  curve  of  Waterloo  Bridge,  where 
the  Embankment  road  passes  under  it,  "  as  vast,  it  alone,  as 
the  Rialto  at  Venice,  and  scarcely  less  seemly  in  proportions," 
yet  finds,  in  the  wretched  attempts  at  decoration  on  the 
Embankment,  and  in  the  sad  want  of  "  human  imagination  " 
of  the  English  architect,  windmills  apt  and  ready  to  his  lance. 
Unlike  the  Rialto,  the  "Waterloo  arch, "he  remarks  plaintively, 
;'  is  nothing  more  than  a  gloomy  and  hollow  heap  of  wedged 
blocks  of  blind  granite  "  : 

"  We  have  lately  been  busy,"  he  says,  "  embanking,  in  the  capital  of  the 
country,  the  river  which,  cf  all  its  waters,  the  imagination  of  our  ancestors 
had  made  most  sacred,  and  the  bounty  of  nature  most  useful.  Of  all 
architectural  features  of  the  metropolis,  that  embankment  will  be,  in  future, 
the  most  conspicuous  ;  and  in  its  position  and  purpose  it  was  the  most 
capable  of  noble  adornment.  For  that  adornment,  nevertheless,  the  utmost 
which  our  modern  poetical  imagination  has  been  able  to  invent,  is  a  row 
of  gas-lamps.  It  has,  indeed,  farther  suggested  itself  to  our  minds  as 
appropriate  to  gas-lamps  set  beside  a  river,  that  the  gas  should  come  out 
of  fishes'  tails  ;  but  we  have  not  ingenuity  enough  to  cast  so  much  as  a 
smelt  or  a  sprat  for  ourselves;  so  we  borrow  the  shape  of  a  Neapolitan 
marble,  which  has  been  the  refuse  of  the  plate  and  candlestick  shops  in 
every  capital  in  Europe  for  the  last  fifty  years.  We  cast  that  badly,  and 
give  lustre  to  the  ill-cast  fish  with  lacquer  in  imitation  of  bronze.  On  the 
base  of  their  pedestals,  toward  the  road,  we  put,  for  advertisement's  sake, 


42  VIEW  FROM  WATERLOO  BRIDGE  CHAP. 

the  initials  of  the  casting  firm  ;  and,  for  farther  originality  and  Christianity's 
sake,  the  caduceus  of  Mercury  :  and  to  adorn  the  front  of  the  pedestals 
towards  the  river,  being  now  wholly  at  our  wits'  end,  we  can  think  of 
nothing  better  than  to  borrow  the  door-knocker  which — again  for  the  last 
fifty  years — has  disturbed  and  decorated  two  or  three  millions  of  London  street 
doors  ;  and  magnifying  the  marvellous  device  of  it,  a  lion's  head  with  a  ring 
in  its  mouth  (still  borrowed  from  the  Greek),  we  complete  the  embankment 
with  a  row  of  heads  and  rings,  on  a  scale  which  enables  them  to  produce, 
at  the  distance  at  which  only  they  can  be  seen,  the  exact  effect  of  a  row  of 
sentry-boxes." 

Much,  however,  may  be  forgiven  to  Mr.  Ruskin.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  view  from  Waterloo  Bridge  is  thus  described  by 
the  late  Mr.  Samuel  Butler : 

"  When.  .  .  .1  think  of  Waterloo  Bridge  and  the  huge  wide-opened 
jaws  of  those  two  Behemoths,  the  -Cannon  Street  and  Charing  Cross 
railway  stations,  I  am  not  sure  that  the  prospect  here  is  not  even  finer  than 
in  Fleet  Street.  See  how  they  belch  forth  puffing  trains  as  the  breath  of 
their  nostrils,  gorging  and  disgorging  incessantly  those  human  atoms  whose 
movement  is  the  life  of  the  city.  How  like  it  all  is  to  some  great  bodily 
mechanism.  .  .  .And  then.  .  .  the  ineffable  St.  Paul's.  I  was  once  on 
Waterloo  Bridge  after  a  heavy  thunderstorm  in  summer.  A  thick  darkness 
was  upon  the  river  and  the  buildings  upon  the  north  side,  but  just  below,  I 
could  see  the  water  hurrying  onward  as  in  an  abyss,  dark,  gloomy  and 
mysterious.  On  a  level  with  the  eye  there  was  an  absolute  blank,  but 
above,  the  sky  was  clear,  and  out  of  the  gloom  the  dome  and -towers  of  St. 
Paul's  rose  up  sharply,  looking  higher  than  they  actually  were,  and  as 
though  they  rested  upon  space." 

Mr.  Astor's  charming  estate  office,  one  of  the  prettiest 
buildings  in  London,  facing  the  Embankment,  close  to  the 
Temple  Gardens,  is  yet  another  instance  of  that  latter-day  change 
from  palace  to  office,  already  mentioned.  At  Blackfriars,  the 
Victoria  Embankment  ends,  and  tall,  many-storied  warehouses 
crowd  down  to  the  water's  edge,  in  picturesque  though  dingy 
medley,  with,  behind  them,  the  blackened  dome  of  St.  Paul's, 
attended  by  its  sentinel  spires, — St.  Paul's,  that  has  nearly  all 
the  way  stood  out  prominently  in  the  distance,  making  this,  by 
universal  consent,  the  finest  view  in  all  London.  The  noble 


ii  THAMES  STREET  AND  BILLINGSGATE  43 

effect  of  Wren's  great  work  is  indeed,  apparent  from  all  points  ; 
but  it  is  the  river  and  the  wharves  that,  no  doubt,  form  its 
best  and  most  fitting  foreground.  As  we  near  London  Bridge, 
the  dirt  of  the  vast  highway  gains  upon  us ;  but,  it  must  be 
confessed,  its  general  picturesqueness  is  thereby  immeasurably 
increased.  Dirt,  afcer  all,  is  always  so  near  akin  to  picturesque- 
ness.  The  mud-banks  and  the  mud  become  more  constant,  the 
bustle  and  hum  of  the  great  city  are  everywhere  evident. 
Barges  are  moored  under  the  tall  warehouses  ;  workmen  stand  in 
the  storing-places  above,  hauling  up  the  goods  from  the  boats 
with  ropes  and  pulleys ;  it  is  a  scene  of  ceaseless  activity,  an 
activity  too,  which  increases  as  you  descend  the  stream.  On 
the  one  side,  the  slums  and  warehouses  of  Upper  Thames 
Street ;  on  the  other,  the  yet  slummier  purlieus  of  busy,  often- 
burned-down  Tooley  Street.  Thames  Street,  like  its  adjoining 
Billingsgate,  is,  I  may  remark,  nearly  always  muddy,  whatever 
the  time  of  year.  On  rainy  days,  it  is  like  a  Slough  of 
Despond.  If  by  chance  you  wish  to  land  at  All  Hallows  or 
London  Bridge  Piers,  you  must  first  climb  endless  wooden  and 
slippery  steps,  then  wend  your  way  carefully,  past  threatening 
cranes,  and  along  narrow  alleys  between  high  houses,  alleys 
blocked  by  heavy  waggons,  from  which  tremendous  packages 
ascend,  by  rope,  to  top  stories  ;  alleys  where  there  is  barely  room 
for  a  solitary  pedestrian  to  wedge  himself  past  the  obstruction. 
Barrels  of  the  delicious  oyster,  the  obnoxious  "cockle,"  the 
humble  "  winkle " ;  loud  scents  that  suggest  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  the  ubiquitous  "  kipper " ;  these,  mingled 
with  the  shouts  of  fish-wives  and  porters,  greet  you  near  that 
Temple  of  the  Fisheries,  Billingsgate.  The  enormous  Monu- 
ment, which  stands  close  by,  may  be  said  to  be  in  the  dirtiest, 
dingiest  portion  of  this  dingy  region.  "  Fish  Street  Hill "  the 
locality  is  called ;  and  it  certainly  is  no  misnomer. 

London  Bridge  must  have  been  wonderfully  picturesque  in 
old  days  ;  it  seems  to  have  looked  then  very  much  as  the 
Florentine  "  Ponte.  Vecchio  "  does  now,  with,  outside,  its  quaint 


44  LONDON  BRIDGE  CHAP. 

overhanging  timbered  houses,  balconies,  roof-gardens,  and, 
inside,  its  narrow  street  of  shops.  The  sixth  picture  in  the 
"  Marriage  a  la  Mode  "  series  at  the  National  Gallery  gives  us 
an  idea  of  what  it  was  like.  The  present  bridge,  opened  in 
1831,  at  a  cost  of  two  millions,  is  the  last  of  many  on  or  near 
this  site.  For  there  has  been  a  bridge  here  of  some  kind  ever 
since  we  know  anything  of  London  ;  no  other  bridge,  indeed, 
existed  at  all  in  old  days.  By  old  London  Bridge  Wat  Tyler 
entered  with  his  rebels ;  by  it  Jack  Cade  invaded  the  city 
(though  his  head,  for  that  matter,  soon  adorned  its  gate-house), 
and  here  London  was  wont,  with  pageant  and  ceremonial,  to 
welcome  her  kings.  The  picturesque  old  stone  bridge  was 
demolished  in  1832  ;  its  narrow  arches  hindered  traffic,  and 
gave  undue  help,  besides,  to  that  total  freezing  of  the  river 
that  occasionally  happened,  as  the  ancient  "Frost  Fairs"  record, 
in  old  days  ;  yet  one  cannot  help  regretting  the  necessity  for  its 
removal.  The  present  London  Bridge,  though  said  to  be 
"  unrivalled  in  the  world  in  the  perfection  of  proportion  and 
the  true  greatness  of  simplicity,"  is,  perhaps,  more  practical 
than  aesthetically  beautiful.  The  tide  ebbs  strongly  against  its 
massive  piers  ;  the  last  roadway  across  the  river,  it  is  also  the 
boundary  line  for  big  ships  and  sailing  boats  ;  below  here  the 
river  assumes  more  and  more  the  look  of  a  sea-port ;  it 
becomes  "  the  Pool  of  London."  From  this  bridge  are  to  be 
seen  some  of  the  finest  London  views.  The  lace-like  structure 
of  the  unique  Tower  Bridge,  the  most  extraordinary  monument 
of  the  century,  rising,  between  its  huge  watch-towers,  like  a 
white  wraith  behind  the  more  prosaic  stone  of  London  Bridge, 
is  here  very  telling.  And,  looking  towards  the  City,  the 
brilliant  tower  of  St.  Magnus  gleams  with  quite  Venetian-like 
brightness  against  the  blackened  medley  of  its  background. 

The  Tower  Bridge,  on  a  first  sight,  is  infinitely  more 
astonishing  to  the  sightseer  than  any  other  London  monument. 
It  has  also  a  mediaeval  look,  as  of  some  gigantic  fortress  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  With  regard  to  the  two  great  towers, 


ii  THE  TOWER  BRIDGE  45 

flanked  on  either  side  by  their  graceful  suspension  chains, 
"  spanned  high  overhead  as  with  a  lintel,  and  holding  apart  the 
great  twin  bascules,  like  a  portcullis  raised  to  give  entry  to  a 
castle,  there  is  no  denying  that  all  this  must  loom  as  an 
impressive  Watergate  upon  ships  coming  from  overseas  to  the 
Port  of  London."  M.  Gabriel  Mourey  thus  descrides  it : 

"  The  Tower  Bridge,  the  water-gate  of  the  Capital,  is  a  colossal  symbol 
of  the  British  genius.  Like  that  genius,  the  Bridge  struck  me  as  built  on 
lines  of  severe  simplicity,  harmonious,  superbly  balanced,  without  exaggera- 
tion or  emphasis ;  sober  architecture,  yet  with  reasonable  audacities,  signifying 
its  end  with  that  clearness  which  is  the  hall-mark  of  everything  English. 
It  wonderfully  completes  the  seething  landscape  of  quays  and  docks,  and 
the  infernal  activity  of  the  greatest  port  in  the  world.  No  waters  in  the 
world  better  reflect  without  deforming  than  the  muddy  waters  of  the 
Thames ;  never  blue  even  under  the  blue  skies  of  summer.  Throw  this 
bridge  across  the  Seine  or  the  Loire,  and  it  would  spoil  the  view,  like  a 
false  note  of  colour.  But  here,  on  the  contrary,  its  effect  is  prodigiously 
imposing.  Look  at  its  two  towers,  how  square  and  solid  they  are.  Their 
tips  are  crowned  by  steeples,  the  roofs  are  pointed,  the  windows  straight, 
with  pointed  arches.  It  looks  like  the  gate  to  some  strong  tower  of  the 
middle  ages.  The  combinations  of  lines  composing  the  bridge  call  up  the 
idea  of  some  heroic  past  time.  They  lift  themselves  above  the  river  like 
some  massive  efflorescence  of  the  past.  But  look  again,  and  the  impression 
becomes  more  complex.  Light  and  airy,  like  clear  lace,  an  iron  foot-bridge 
joins  the  two  towers,  across  the  abyss.  Another,  lower  down,  on  the  level 
of  the  banks,  lifts  up  to  let  big  ships  pass  as  under  a  triumphal  arch.  And 
all  the  audacity  of  the  modern  architects,  which  is  to  create  the  works  of 
the  future,  here  bursts  forth,  suspended  on  the  heavy  foundations  of  the 
past ;  with  so  much  measure  and  proportion  that  nothing  offends  in  the 
medly  of  archaism  and  modernity.  There  are  few  countries  able  to  carry 
off  such  contrasts.  But  this  country  adjusts  itself  to  them  in  perfection. 
It  is  because  no  other  people  know  how  to  unite  with  the  same  harmonious 
force  the  cult  of  the  past,  the  religion  of  tradition,  to  an  unchecked  love  of 
progress,  and  a  lively  and  insatiable  passion  for  the  future." 

The  Tower  Bridge,  as  compared  with  other  great  engineering 
works  of  the  kind,  labours  under  the  disadvantage  of  not  being 
seen  properly  from  anywhere  as  a  whole,  taking  in,  that  is, 
both  abutment  towers  with  their  pendant  suspension  chains, 
which  add  so  much  to  the  general  effect.  Nevertheless,  even 


46  THE  POOL  OF  LONDON  CHAP. 

viewed  from  close  by,  it  is  very  telling,  and  dwarfs  immeasur- 
ably any  other  building  near  it ;  see,  for  instance,  how  the 
little  Tower  of  London,  that  ancient  and  most  historic  fortress, 
loses  its  size  from  its  close  juxtaposition  to  those  supporting 
towers  !  The  "  bascules,"  or  drawbridges,  are  worked  by 
hydraulic  power,  and  it  is  a  curious  and  interesting  sight  to  see 
them  raised  to  allow  tall  vessels  to  pass.  Below  the  Tower 
Bridge,  the  broad  river  seems  to  extend  in  a  sea  of 
masts,  the  city  to  become  a  world  of  wharves  and  docks.  To 
quote,  once  more,  an  "  impression  "  of  M.  Gabriel  Mourey  : 

"  Once  past  the  London  Tower  Bridge,  and  its  two  enormous  towers, 
which  rise  like  a  triumphal  arch  with  an  air  of  calm  victory  at  the  entrance 
to  the  great  metropolis,  the  seaport  aspect  of  London  becomes  very  apparent. 
The  immense  traffic  on  the  river  is  evident  from  the  constant  passage  of 
steamers,  no  less  than  by  their  frequent  calls  at  the  wharves  whose  blackened 
walls,  deep  in  water,  receive  the  riches  of  the  entire  world.  A  whole  people 
toil  at  the  unloading  of  the  enormous  ships  ;  swarming  on  the  barges,  dark 
figures,  dimly  outlined,  moving  rhythmically,  fill  in  and  give  life  to  the 
picture.  In  the  far  distance,  behind  the  interminable  lines  of  sheds  and 
warehouses,  masts  bound  the  horizon,  masts  like  a  bare  forest  in  winter, 
finely  branched,  exaggerated,  aerial  trees  grown  in  all  the  climates  of  the 
globe.  Steam-tugs  whistle,  pant,  and  hurry  ;  ships  with  great  red  sails 
descend  the  river  towards  the  sea.  An  enormous  steamer  advances 
majestically;  she  seems  as  tall  as  a  five-storied  house  and  her  masts  are 
lost  in  the  mist.  The  river  suddenly  widens,  the  thick  smoke  of  the 
atmosphere  almost  prevents  one  from  seeing  the  other  side  ;  it  might  almost 
be  an  immense  lake.  Rain,  steam,  and  speed  ; — Turner's  chef  d'oeuvre 
evoked  before  my  eyes.  The  ever-changing  sky  is  a  continual  wonder.  A 
while  ago  the  sun,  like  a  disc  of  melting  cream,  disappeared  in  yellowish 
mists,  scattering  reflections  like  dirty  snow.  Now,  through  a  clearing,  he 
appears  like  the  altar-glory  of  a  Jesuit  church  ;  raining  waves  of  golden 
light ;  the  surrounding  cloud- flocks  are  in  a  moment  tinged  with  brilliance. 
And  again,  he  is  suddenly  eclipsed  ;  all  returns  to  dulness  and  gloom  :  it 
might  be  the  sad  dawn  of  a  rainy  day." 

It  is,  above  all,  this  vast  and  eternally  busy  "  Pool  of 
London  "  that  is,  and  ever  has  been,  the  key  to  her  greatness, 
her  wealth,  her  power.  Even  the  distant  church  bells  of 
London,  clanging  fitfully  through  the  "  swish  "  of  the  wavelets 


ii  THE  DOCKS  AND  WHARVES  47 

and  the  eternal  muffled  roar  of  the  City,  recall  to  the  true 
Londoner  the  commercial  spirit  of  his  ancestors.  Does  not 
the  children's  rhyme  (there  is  ever  deep  reason  in  childish 
rhymes)  run  thus? 

"  Oranges  and  Lemons, 
Say  the   bells  of  St.    Clement's  ; 
You  owe  me  ten  shillings, 
Say  the  bells  of  St.  Helen's  ; 
When  will  you  pay  me  ? 
Say  the  bells  of  Old  Bailey  ; 
When  I  grow  rich, 
Say  the  bells  of  Shoreditch." 

The  bells,  be  it  observed,  are  nothing  if  not  business-like, 
and  seem  to  be  more  nearly  concerned  with  our  temporal  than 
with  our  spiritual  welfare.  But  here  everything  tells  of  work, 
of  traffic,  of  the  endless  and  indomitable  "  struggle-for-life " 
that  is  so  characteristic  of  the  British  race.  Father  Thames, 
here,  may  well  speak  in  Kingsley's  words  : 

' '  Darker  and  darker  the  further  I  go  ; 
Baser  and  baser  the  richer  I  grow." 

These  dingy  docks,  these  blackened  wharves,  represent,  in 
reality,  the  world's  great  treasure-house.  For  to  this  vast  port 
of  London  comes  all  "  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind,"  all 
the  riches  of  "a  thousand  islands  rocked  in  an  idle  main,"  all 
the  luxuriant  produce  of  new-world  farms,  of  Colonial  ranches, 
of  tropical  gardens.  Here,  if  anywhere,  may  be  realised  his 
vision  who  saw 

"  The  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales." 

Jewels  such  as  a  Queen  of  Sheba  might  have  dreamed  of,  or 
a  Sindbad  fabled,  from  "  far  Cathay  " ;  ivory  and  gold  from  the 
mysterious  East ;  spices,  bark,  and  coral  from  many  a  land  of 
reef  and  palm  ;  these,  with  every  commercial  product  of  the 
globe,  are  daily  poured  into  the  ravenous  and  never-satisfied 


48  THE  DOCK  WAREHOUSES  CHAP. 

maw  of  London.  This  vast  giant,  enormous,  helpless,  is,  like 
the  queen  termite,  all-devouring,  and  yet  would  starve  of 
actual  food  in  few  days  if  deprived  of  her  ever-arriving  cargoes. 
For  Colonial  produce,  as  every  one  knows,  is,  despite  the  costs 
of  freight,  far  cheaper  than  that  of  our  own  country.  The 
"  Feeding  of  London,"  indeed,  should  prove  a  very  interesting 
subject  to  those  attracted  by  statistics. 

"  There  are  within  the  limits  of  the  metropolis  at  least  five  million 
human  beings,  each  of  whom  has  every  day  to  be  provided  with  food.  The 
difference  between  the  plenty  of  one  class  and  the  pittance  of  another  is,  no 
doubt,  very  marked  ;  but  taking  the  rich  and  the  poor  together,  the 
quantity  of  food  required  is  almost  incredible.  The  necessity  for  large 
imports  suggests  horrid  possibilities  for  some  future  siege  of  London  !  But 
as  the  trade  and  port  of  London  have  made  its  wealth,  so  they  have  also 
helped  it  to  its  present  enormous  dimensions ;  for  though  the  country,  by 
the  railways,  brings  her  share  of  London's  sustenance,  yet  by  far  the 
larger  proportion  of  it  comes  through  the  docks.  Thus,  frozen  and  living  meat 
comes  from  the  far  colony  of  New  Zealand,  and  also  from  the  United  States, 
Canada,  the  River  Plate,  and  Australia  ;  potatoes  from  Malta,  Portugal, 
and  Holland  ;  tea  from  China  and  India  ;  early  vegetables  from  Madeira 
and  the  Canary  Islands  :  spices  from  Ceylon  ;  wines  from  France,  Portugal, 
and  Spain  ;  oranges  from  all  parts  of  the  tropical  globe,  far  cheaper  often 
than  our  own  home-grown  fruits.  The  import  of  oranges,  indeed,  alone 
reaches  a  total  of  800  or  goo  millions  yearly  ;  that  of  raisins  and  currants 
some  1 2,000  tons;  while  other  things  are  in  proportion.  The  unloading 
of  the  ships  is  done  by  casual  helpers,  called  "dockers"  or  "dock- 
labourers,"  a  rough  class  of  workmen  living  in  and  around  Wapping, 
Rotherhithe,  and  Stepney.  Their  employment,  though  now  paid  at  a  fair 
rate  for  "unskilled  "  labour,  is  necessarily  heavy  while  it  lasts,  and  uncer- 
tain, causing  often  a  hand-to-mouth  existence,  and  leading  to  frequent 
"strikes." — (Darlington's  London  and  its  Environs.} 

The  dock  warehouses  should  be  visited,  if  only  to  gain  some 
idea  of  the  enormous  wealth  of  London. 

"These  docks,"  says  M.  Taine,  "are  prodigious,  overpowering;  each 
of  them  is  a  vast  port,  and  accommodates  a  multitude  of  three-masted 
vessels.  There  are  ships  everywhere,  ships  upon  ships  in  rows  ....  for 
the  most  part  they  are  leviathans,  magnificent  ....  some  of  them  hail 
from  all  parts  of  the  world  ;  this  is  the  great  trysting-place  of  the  globe," 


II  THE  RIVER  ENCHANTMENT  49 

The  shore  population,  about  here,  consists  mostly  of  sailors 
and  fishermen  ;  "  the  Sailors'  Town,"  the  region  east  of  the 
Tower  is  specially  called.  The  river  scenes  here  are  as  pictur- 
esque in  their  way  as  any  in  the  world,  a  fact  of  which  not  only 
Turner's  pictures,  but  also  Mr.  Vicat  Cole's  "  Pool  of  London," 
now  in  the  Tate  Gallery,  may  well  remind  us.  Why,  indeed, 
should  our  artists  all  flock  to  Venice  to  paint  ?  Have  we  not 
also  here  golden  sunsets,  sails  of  Venetian  red,  tall  masts, 
dappled  skies,  all  the  picturesque  litter  and  crowded  life  that 
Turner  so  loved,  suffused  in  an  atmosphere  of  misty  glory? — a 
glory  translated  by  all  the  glamour  of  history  and  sentiment 

into 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 

To  the  eyes  of  the  boy  Turner,  the  embryo  artist,  the  child  of 
the  City,  all  was  beautiful  and  worthy  to  be  painted — "  black 
barges,  patched  sails,  and  every  possible  condition  of  fog."  To 
him,  even  in  mature  life,  "Thames'  shore,  with  its  stranded 
barges,  and  glidings  of  red  sail,  was  dearer  than  Lucerne  lake 
or  Venetian  lagoon."  Its  humanity  appealed  to  him  ;  he,  as 
great  a  London-lover  as  Dickens,  merely  expressed  this  feeling 
differently.  Thus,  Ruskin  says  of  Turner's  boyhood  : 

"That  mysterious  forest  below  London  Bridge, — better  for  the  boy  than 
wood  of  pine  or  grove  of  myrtle.  How  he  must  have  tormented  the 
watermen,  beseeching  them  to  let  him  crouch  anywhere  in  the  bows,  quiet 
as  a  log,  so  only  that  he  might  get  floated  down  there  among  the  ships, 
and  round  and  round  the  ships,  and  with  the  ships,  and  by  the  ships,  and 
under  the  ships,  staring  and  clambering  ; — these  the  only  quite  beautiful 
things  he  can  see  in  all  the  world,  except  the  sky  ;  but  these,  when  the  sun 
is  on  their  sails,  filling  or  falling,  endlessly  disordered  by  sway  of  tide  and 
stress  of  anchorage,  beautiful  unspeakably  ;  which  ships  also  are  inhabited 
by  glorious  creatures — red- faced  sailors,  with  pipes,  appearing  over  the 
gunwales,  true  knights,  over  their  castle  parapets,— the  most  angelic  beings 
in  the  whole  compass  of  London  world." 

The  Thames  and  its  wonderful  glamour,  its  mingled  beauty 
and  squalor — beauty,  in  the  misty  distance— squalor,  in  the 

K 


50  DICKENS'S  WATERSIDE  SCENES  CHAP. 

more  prosaic  near  view  -  suggests  memories  of  Dickens,  as  it 
does  of  Turner.  Memories  of  that  "great  master  of  tears  and 
laughter  "  are,  indeed,  awakened  by  every  bend  of  the  stream. 
The  romance  of  the  mighty  river  was  all-powerful  with  him,  as 
with  Turner  ;  for  he,  too,  had  known  it  in  his  early  youth.  To 
him,  also,  even  Thames  mud  afforded  mysterious  interest.  Did 
not  the  blacking  factory,  celebrated  in  the  pathetic  pages  of 
David  Copperfield,  where  the  miserable  hours  of  his  own 
early  youth  were  spent,  stand  at  the  waterside,  in  Blackfriars  ? 
"My  favourite  lounging  place,"  says  David,  "in  the  intervals, 
was  old  London  Bridge  (this  was  before  its  demolition  in  1832), 
where  I  was  wont  to  sit  in  one  of  the  stone  recesses,  watching 
the  people  going  by,  or  to  look  over  the  balustrades  at  the  sun 
shining  in  the  water,  and  lighting  up  the  golden  flame  on  the 
top  of  the  monument."  The  real  David — poor  little  boy  — may, 
indeed,  have  occasionally  played  at  being  a  London  mudlark 
himself,  in  off  hours ;  but  this  he  does  not  tell  us  ! 

"  Murdstone  and  Grinby's  warehouse  was  at  the  water  side.  It  was 
down  in  Blackfriars.  Modern  improvements  have  altered  the  place  ;  but 
it  was  the  last  house  at  the  bottom  of  a  narrow  street,  curving  down  hill  to 
the  river,  with  some  stairs  at  the  end,  where  people  took  boat.  It  was  a 
crazy  old  house  with  a  wharf  of  its  own,  abutting  on  the  water  when  the 
tide  was  in,  and  on  the  mud  when  the  tide  was  out,  and  literally  overrun 
with  rats." 

The  waterside  scenes  in  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  including 
the  wharf  where  Mr.  Quilp,  the  vicious  dwarf,  broke  up  his 
ships,  and  where  Mr.  Sampson  Brass  so  nearly  broke  his 
shins,  were  rivalled  in  vividness,  thirty  years  afterwards,  by  the 
river  chapters  in  Our  Mutual  Friend.  In  this  later  story, 
special  stress  is  laid  on  the  river  suicides,  and  the  consequent 
"dragging"  for  corpses,  done  by  the  watermen  for  salvage. 
Dreadful  task  !  but  not  uncommon  "  down  by  Ratcliffe,  and  by 
Rotherhithe,  where  accumulated  scum  of  humanity  seemed  to 
be  washed  from  higher  ground,  like  so  much  moral  sewage,  and 
to  be  pausing  until  its  own  weight  forced  it  over  the  bank  and 


ii  THE  DOME  OF  ST.   PAUL'S  51 

sunk  it  in  the  river."  Near  Rotherhithe — a  dingy  pier  usually 
infested  by  mudlarks— is  "Jacob's  Island,"  made  notorious  by 
the  scene  in  Oliver  Twist.  "  It  is  surrounded,"  says  Dickens, 
"  by  a  muddy  ditch,  six  or  eight  feet  deep,  and  fifteen  or  twenty 
wide  when  the  tide  is  in  .  .  .  known  in  these  days  as  Folly 
Ditch."  By  means  of  this  ditch,  the  murderer  Sikes  tries  to 
escape  from  the  infuriated  crowd  who  clamour  for  his  life,  but 
he  fails  in  the  attempt  and  perishes  miserably. 

Such  is  the  splendour,  such  the  misery,  of  the  richest, 
largest,  most  powerful  city  in  the  world  !  And  over  all  the 
seething  tides  of  the  river  and  of  humanity  -  the  luxury  and 
wretchedness  — the  "laughing,  weeping,  hurrying  ever"  of  the 
crowd,  still  the  grey  dome  of  St.  Paul's  dominates  the  scene, 
still  its  "  cross  of  gold  shines  over  city  and  river,"  calm  and 
changeless  above  all  tides  and  passions.  Browning  has  sug- 
gested the  poetry  of  the  view  from  the  dome : 

"  Over  the  ball  of  it, 
Peering  and  prying, 
How  I  see  all  of  it, 
Life  there  outlying  ! 
Roughness   and  smoothness, 
Shine  and  defilement, 
Grace  and  uncouthness, 
One  reconcilement." 

Beyond  the  Tower  Bridge,  and  beyond  the  docks  and  the  East 
End,  the  glitter  of  Greenwich  comes  in,  striking  yet  another 
note  in  the  ever-changing  key.  This  palace  of  Greenwich,  set 
like  a  jewel  among  its  green  hills  and  parks,  was  the  favourite 
royal  abode  of  the  Tudor  Sovereigns.  Here  Elizabeth  was 
born,  and  lived  in  state,  and  here  her  brother  Edward,  the  boy- 
king,  died  in  the  flower  of  his  youth.  The  shining  Observatory 
crowns  the  hill  of  Greenwich  Park — a  welcome  oasis  of 
green  after  the  "  midnight  mirk "  of  the  East  End  through 
which  we  have  passed ;  and  the  fair  frontage  of  the  Palace 
recalls  to  us  the  historic  mood  in  which  we  began  our  wander- 

E    2 


52  A  RETROSPECT  CH.  n 

ings.  Beautiful  now  with  a  new  beauty,  a  twentieth  century 
beauty — how  lovely,  in  a  different  way,  it  must  have  been  in 
those  distant  ages,  when  the  splendid  gilt  barges  of  the  nobles, 
with  their  gaily-painted  awnings,  were  moored  at  their  palatial 
water  gates ;  when  fair  ladies  sang  to  guitars  as  their  craft 
glided  smoothly  "  under  tower  and  balcony,  by  garden-wall  and 
gallery "  ;  when  each  citizen  had  his  private  wherry,  when 
loaded  "  tilt-boats,"  filled  with  merry  passengers,  plied  up  and 
down  between  Greenwich  and  Westminster.  As  is  the  Oxford, 
the  Godstow  Thames  of  to-day,  the  London  Thames  was  then  ; 
"  the  stream  of  pleasure,"  no  less  than  of  wealth.  Gazing, 
through  the  gathering  twilight,  over  towards  the  misty  shadow 
of  vast  St.  Paul's,  seen  behind  the  gleaming  tower  of  St. 
Magnus,  or  towards  the  shimmering  expanse  of  water  under 
the  wharves  of  "  London  Pool,"  you  can  still  be  oblivious  to 
the  present  changes ;  but  presently  you  are  rudely  awakened 
by  the  very  unpleasant  grating  of  the  steamer  against  its  flimsy 
wooden  quay;  and  the  dulcet  strains  of  "the  Last  Ro-wse  of 
Summer,"  played  to  a  somewhat  wheezy  accordion,  reach  your 
ears  in  very  un-Tudor  and  un-toward  fashion.  Roman 
London,  Saxon  London,  Elizabethan  London,  all  fade,  like 
Lamb's  "  dream-children,"  into  the  far-away  past ; — giving  place 
to  Victorian  London, — as,  jostled  by  a  motley  and  not  too 
immaculate  crowd,  you  scramble  sadly  across  the  rickety  gang- 
way to  the  very  common-place  and  unpalatial  shore  below 
London  Bridge. 


An   Underground  Station. 


CHAPTER   III 

RAMBLES    IN    THE    CITY 

"  I  have  seen  the  West  End,  the  parks,  the  fine  squares  ;  but  I  love  the 
City  far  better.  The  City  seems  so  much  more  in  earnest ;  its  business, 
its  rush,  its  roar,  are  such  serious  things,  sights,  sounds.  The  City  is 
getting  its  living,  the  West  End  but  enjoying  its  pleasure.  At  the  West 
End  you  maybe  amused;  but  in  the  City  you  are  deeply  excited."— C. 
Bronte:  "  Vilietie" 

' '  And  who  cries  out  on  crowd  and  mart  ? 

Who  prates  of  stream  and  sea  ? 
The  summer  in  the  City's  heart 
That  is  enough  for  me." 

— Atny  Le^>y  :   "A  London  Plane  Tree." 

THE  City  is,  by  common  consent,  the  most  interesting  and 
vital  part  of  the  metropolis, —interesting,  not  only  for  its 


54  QUIET  BACKWATERS  CHAP. 

past, — but  for  its  present ;  ever-living, — eternally  renewed  ; — 
a  never-ceasing,  impetuous,  Niagara  of  energy  and  power.  It 
is  the  pulse, — or  rather  the  aorta, — of  the  tremendous  machine 
of  London  ;  through  its  crowded  veins  rushes  the  life-blood  of 
commerce,  of  industry,  of  wealth,  that  feeds  and  stimulates 
not  only  the  town,  but  also  the  country  and  the  nation. 
Through  its  ancient  and  narrow  highways,  crowds  of  black- 
coated  human  ants  hurry,  day  by  day,  eager  in  pursuit  of 
money,  of  power,  and  of  their  daily  bread. 

And  yet,  curiously  enough,  it  is  close  by  these  very  crowded 
thoroughfares  of  human  life  and  energy,  that  the  most  se- 
cluded haunts  of  peace  may  be  found  ;  calm  "  backwaters,"  all 
deserted  and  forgotten  by  the  flowing  stream  that  runs  so 
near  them  ;  tiny  spots  of  unsuspected  greenery  and  ancient 
stone,  absolutely  startling  in  their  quiet  proximity  to  the 
surrounding  din  and  whirl.  Though  the  area  of  the  "  City," 
so-called,  is  but  small,  yet  it  abounds  in  such  peaceful,  un- 
dreamed-of spots ;  places  where  the  painter  may  set  up  his 
easel,  or  even  the  photographer  his  camera,  without  fear  of 
let  or  hindrance.  Secluded  bits  of  ancient  churchyard, 
portions  of  long-forgotten  convent  garden,  of  old  wall  or 
bastion,  or  of  antique  plane-tree  grove ;  it  is  such  nooks  as 
these  that,  even  more  than  in  Kensington  Gardens,  suggest 
Matthew  Arnold's  lovely  lines  : 

"  Calm  soul  of  all  things  !  make  it  mine 
To  feel,  above  the  city's  jar, 
That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine 
Man  did  not  make  and  cannot  mar." 

To  see  and  know  the  City  with  any  proper  appreciation  of  its 
interests  and  beauties,  would  require  many  days  of  wandering 
and  leisured  perambulation.  In  no  part  of  London  do  things 
and  views  come  upon  the  pedestrian  with  more  startling  sud- 
denness. Emerging  from  some  narrow  and  smoky  alley, 
where  the  house-roofs,  perhaps,  nearly  meet  overhead,  he  may 
find  himself,  by  some  sharp  turn  of  the  ways,  almost  directly 


in  ANTIQUARIAN  ZEAL  55 

under  the  enormous  blackened  dome  of  St.  Paul's, — looking, 
in  such  close  proximity, —  and  especially  if  there  happen  to  be 
any  fog  about, — of  positively  incredible  size.  Or  he  may  find 
peaceful  red-brick  rectories,  that  suggest  country  villages, 
adjoining,  in  all  charity,  noisy  mills  .and  warehouses  ;  or  railways 
and  canals,  which  give  forth  smoke  and  steam  with  amiable  im- 
partiality, and  intersect  streets  where  fragments  of  old  houses 
yet  linger  in  picturesque  decay ;  or,  again,  noisy  tram-lines, 
cutting  through  mediaeval  squares,  that,  once  upon  a  time,  were 
peaceful  and  residential.  Yet,  after  all,  it  ill  becomes  us  to 
murmur  at  the  tram-lines  and  the  railways  ;  we  ought  rather  to 
be  thankful  that  anything  at  all  of  the  old  time  is  left  us. 
For,  in  the  City,  where  things  are,  and  ever  must  be,  chiefly 
utilitarian,  the  survival  of  ancient  relics  is  all  the  more  to  be 
wondered  at. 

But  the  time  of  careless  and  rash  destruction  is  past.  The 
antiquarian  spirit  is  now  fairly  in  our  midst,  and  mediaeval  re- 
mains are  preserved,  sometimes  even  at  no  slight  inconvenience. 
And  when  the  progress  of  the  world,  and  of  railways,  requires 
certain  sites,  even  then  the  buildings  on  these,  or  their  most 
interesting  portions,  are,  so  far  as  possible,  spared  and  pro- 
tected from  further  injury.  Thus,  when  the  site  of  "  Sir  Paul 
Pindar's  "  beautiful  old  mansion  in  Bishopsgate  Street  was  re- 
quired for  the  enlargements  of  the  Great  Eastern  Railway 
Company,  its  elaborately-carved  wooden  front  was  transported 
bodily  to  the  South  Kensington  Museum,  which  it  now  adorns  ; 
and  the  church  tower  of  the  ancient  "  All  Hallows  Staining," 
surviving  its  demolished  nave  and  choir,  still  stands,  a  curiously 
isolated  relic,  in  the  green  square  of  the  Clothworkers'  Hall ; 
that  company  being  bound  over  to  keep  it  in  order  and  repair. 
Similarly,  the  pains  and  the  great  expense  incurred  in  the 
careful  restoration  of  that  old  Holborn  landmark,  Staple  Inn,  a 
score  or  so  of  years  back,  are  well  known.  And  "  Crosby  Hall," 
anciently  Crosby  Place,  that  famous  Elizabethan  mansion 
commemorated  in  Shakespeare's  Richard  III.,  is  now,  after 


56  ST.  BARTHOLOMEW  THE  GREAT  CH.  in 

much  danger  and  many  vicissitudes,  utilised  for  the  purposes 
of  a  restaurant,  which,  at  least  ensures  the  keeping  of  it  in 
proper  and  timely  repair.  Fifty,  even  thirty,  years  ago,  ancient 
monuments  were  more  lightly  valued,  sometimes  even  rescued 
with  difficulty  from  the  hands  of  the  destroyer  ;  now,  however, 
the  veneration  for  old  landmarks  is  more  widespread.  Repairs 
to  old  buildings  are,  to  a  certain  extent,  always  necessary  ;  for 
in  London,  more  than  anywhere,  long  neglect  means  inevitable 
decay  and  destruction.  And  if  in  certain  districts  Philistines 
may  yet  have  their  way,  if  the  taste  of  the  builder  and  restorer  is 
not  always  faultless,  things  have  at  any  rate  much  improved 
since  early  Victorian  days. 

Of  the  many  delightful  excursions  to  be  made  in  and  about 
the  City,  perhaps  that  to  the  ancient  priory  church  of  St. 
Bartholomew  the  Great,  Smithfield,  and  the  neighbouring  pre- 
cincts of  the  Charterhouse,  ranks  first.  The  church  is  a 
Norman  relic  unique  in  London,  a  bit  of  medievalism,  left 
curiously  stranded  amid  the  desolation  and  destruction  of 
all  its  compeers.  Though  St.  Bartholomew  the  Great  is 
easily  reached  from  Newgate  Street,  being  indeed  but  just 
beyond  the  famous  hospital  of  the  same  name,  it  is  yet  difficult 
to  find.  Its  diminutive  and  somewhat  inadequate  red-brick 
tower  is  but  just  visible  above  the  row  of  houses  that  divide  it 
from  Smithfield,  and  the  modest  entrance  to  its  precincts, 
underneath  a  mere  shop-archway,  may  easily  be  missed.  The 
church  is,  in  fact,  almost  hidden  by  neighbouring  houses. 
While  its  main  entrance  faces  Smithfield,  the  dark,  mysterious, 
densely-inhabited  district  called  "  Little  Britain  "  crowds  in 
closely  upon  it  on  two  sides,  and  the  picturesque  alley  named 
"Cloth  Fair"  abuts  against  it  on  another.  It  is,  therefore, 
difficult  to  get  much  of  a  view  of  it  anywhere  from  outside ; 
you  may,  indeed,  get  close  to  it,  and  yet  lose  your  way  to  it. 
The  ancient  priory  church  has  only  recently  been  disentangled 
from  the  surrounding  factories  and  buildings,  that  in  the  lapse 
of  careless  centuries  had  been  suffered  to  invade  it. 


Cloth/air. 


58  "  TOM- ALL-ALONE'S "  CHAP. 

The  entrance  door  from  West  Smithfield,  though  insignificant 
in  size,  is  yet  deserving  of  notice ;  for  it  is  a  pointed  Early 
English  arch  with  dog-tooth  ornamentation.  Hence,  a  narrow 
passage  leads  through  a  most  quaint  churchyard ;  an  old-time 
burial-ground,  a  bit  of  rank  and  untended  greenery,  interspersed 
with  decaying  and  falling  gravestones,  and  hemmed  in  by  the 
backs  of  the  tottering  Cloth  Fair  houses  ;  ancient  lath-and- 
plaster  tenements,  crumbling  and  dirty,  their  lower  timbers 
bulging,  yet  most  picturesque  in  their  decay.  They  all  appear  to 
be  let  out  in  rooms  to  poor  workers  ;  above,  patched  and  ragged 
articles  of  clothing  are  hanging  out  to  dry,  while  on  the  ground 
floor  you  may  see  a  shoemaker  hammering  away  at  his  last,  or 
a  carpenter  at  his  lathe,  his  light  much  intercepted  by  a  big 
adjacent  gravestone,  on  which  a  black  cat,  emblem  of  witchery, 
is  sitting.  The  gravestones  seem  not  at  all  to  affect  the  cheer- 
fulness of  the  population ;  perhaps,  indeed,  as  in  the  case  of 
Mr.  Oram,  the  coffinmaker,  these  wax  the  more  cheerful  be- 
cause of  their  gloomy  surroundings.  The  whole  scene,  never- 
theless, is  most  strangely  weird,  and  reminds  one  of  nothing 
so  much  as  of  that  ghoulish  churchyard  described  by  Dickens 
as  in  "  Tom-All-Alone's  ; "  with  this  exception,  that  Dickens  only 
saw  the  sad  humanity  of  such  places,  and  not  their  undoubted 
picturesqueness. 

Beyond  this  strange  disused  burial-ground  the  church  is 
entered.  The  history  of  its  foundation  is  a  romantic  one. 
The  priory  church,  with  its  monastery  and  hospital,  was  the 
direct  outcome  of  a  religious  vow.  In  the  twelfth  century, 
when  the  little  Norman  London  of  the  day  was  the  town  of 
monasteries  and  church  bells  likened  by  Sir  Walter  Besant  to 
the  "He  Sonnante"  of  Rabelais;  in  or  about  1120,  one  of 
King  Henry  I.'s  courtiers,  Rahere  or  Rayer  (the  spelling  of 
that  time  is  uncertain),  went  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome.  At 
Rome  he,  as  people  still  often  do,  fell  ill  of  malarial  fever,  and, 
as  is  less  common,  perhaps  nowadays,  vowed,  if  he  recovered,  to 
build  a  hospital  for  the  "  recreacion  of  poure  men."  Rahere  was, 


A  MEDIEVAL  CONVERT 


59 


says  the  chronicler,  "  a  pleasant-witted  gentleman,  and  therefore 
in  his  time  called  the  King's  minstrel."  (Hence,  no  doubt,  he 
has  been  called  also  "  the  King's  jester  "  ;  though  this  appears 
to  be  incorrect.)  Lively  and  "  pleasant-witted  "  people  are,  we 
know,  apt  to  take  sudden  conversion  hardly ;  and  Rahere  was 
certainly  as  thorough  in  his  dealings  with  the  devil  as  was  any 
mediaeval  saint.  In  his  sickness  he  had  a  vision,  and  in  that 
vision  he  saw  a  great  beast  wath  four  feet  and  two  wings ;  this 
beast  seized  him  and  carried  him  to  a  high  place  whence  he 
could  see  "  the  bottomless  pit "  and  all  its  horrors.  From  this 
very  disagreeable  position  he  was  delivered  by  the  merciful  St. 
Bartholomew,  who  thereupon  ordered  him  to  go  home  and' 
build  a  church  in  his  honour  on  a  site  that  he  should  direct, 
assuring  him  that  he  (the  saint),  would  supply  the  necessary 
funds.  Returning  home,  Rahere  gained  the  king's  consent  to 
the  work,  which  was  forthwith  begun,  and  assisted  greatly  by 
miraculous  agency ;  such  as  bright  light  shining  on  the  roof  of 
the  rising  edifice,  wonderful  cures  worked  there,  and  all  such 
supernatural  revelations.  When  Rahere  died,  in  the  odouj  of 
sanctity,  and  the  first  prior  of  his  foundation,  he  left  thirteen 
canons  attached  to  it ;  which  number  his  successor,  Prior 
Thomas,  had  raised  in  1174  to  thirty-five.  Thus  the  mo 
tery  grew  through  successive  priors,  till  it  was  one  of  the 
largest  religious  houses  in  London.  Its  precincts  and 
accessories  extended  at  one  time  as  far  as  Aldersgate  Street ; 
these  however  vanished  with  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries 
by  Henry  VIII.,  and  all  that  remains  to  the  present  day  is  the 
abbreviated  priory  church  and  a  small  part  of  a  cloister.  In 
monastic  times  the  nave  of  the  edifice  extended,  indeed,  the 
whole  length  of  the  little  churchyard,  as  far  as  the  dog-toothed 
Smithfield  entrance  gate ;  but  of  the  ancient  church  nothing 
no\v  remains  intact  but  the  choir,  with  the  first  bay  of  the  nave 
and  portions  of  the  transepts.  Yet  the  recent  restorations 
have  been  most  successfully  carried  out,  and  the  first  view  of 
the  interior  is  striking  in  its  grand  old  Norman  simplicity. 


60  RESTORATION  OF  ST.  BARTHOLOMEW'S         CHAP. 

The  choir  has  a  triforium  and  a  clerestory,  and  terminates  in 
an  apse,  pierced  by  curious  horseshoe  arches ;  behind  runs  a 
circulating  ambulatory  dividing  it  from  the  adjoining  "  Lady 
chapel."  Worthy  of  notice  is  the  finely-wrought  modern  iron 
screen,  the  work  of  Mr.  Starkie  Gardner,  that  separates  this 
chapel  from  the  apse.  The  church  has  been  altered,  added  to, 
or  mutilated,  from  time  to  time ;  and  other  styles  of  architec- 
ture, such  as  Perpendicular,  have  occasionally  been  introduced  ; 
but  yet  the  main  effect  of  the  interior  is  Norman.  The 
beautiful  Norman  apse,  built  over  and  obliterated  in  the  i5th 
century,  has,  by  the  talent  of  Mr.  Aston  Webb,  been  now  re- 
stored to  its  original  design.  Indeed,  the  whole  edifice  has  in 
recent  times  and  by  the  efforts  of  late  rectors  and  patrons,  been 
extricated  from  dirt,  lumber  and  decay  ;  the  work  of  restoration 
beginning  in  1864.  The  restorer  has  done  his  work  most 
faithfully,  preserving  all  the  old  walls,  and  utilising  the  old 
Norman  stones  used  in  previous  re-buildings. 

The  high  value  of  every  inch  of  space,  in  this  crowded  colony 
of  workers,  had  in  course  of  centuries  caused  many  and  various 
irruptions  into  the  sacred  precincts.  But  some  of  the  worst 
encroachments  may  possibly  have  arisen  in  the  beginning 
more  from  the  action  of  venal  and  careless  officials  and  rectors, 
than  from  outside  greed.  Thus,  supposing  that  a  parishioner 
had,  by  some  means  or  other,  obtained  a  corner  of  the  church 
for  the  stowing  of  his  lumber,  and  that  he  paid  rent  for  it  duly 
to  the  churchwardens ;  he  being  in  time  himself  nominated 
churchwarden,  the  rent  would  lapse,  himself  and  his  heirs 
becoming  eventually  proprietors  of  the  said  corner.  Thus  it 
is  that  abuses  creep  in.  The  state  of  St.  Bartholomew-the- 
Great,  a  half-century  ago,  must  indeed  have  been  grief,  almost 
despair  to  the  antiquary.  A  fringe  factory  occupied  the 
"  Lady-Chapel "  and  even  projected  into  the  apse ;  a  school 
was  held  in  the  triforium  ;  and  a  blacksmith's  forge  filled  one  of 
the  transepts.  The  fringe  factory  cost  no  less  than  ^6,000  to 
buy  out ;  the  blacksmith  whose  forge  had  been  inside  the  church 


in  "BUYING  OUT"  INTRUDERS  61 

for  250  years,  was  removed  for  a  sum  of  £2  ,,000.  In  the 
north  transept  you  may  still  see  the  stone  walls  and  arches 
blackened  with  the  smoke  of  the  forge,  and  a  curious  white 
patch,  yet  remaining  on  the  pillared  wall,  testifies  to  the  exact 
spot  where  the  blacksmith's  tool-cupboard  used  to  stand.  The 
feet  of  the  horses  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  improved  the 
Norman  pillars.  Pious  legend  is  already  busy  with  the  history 
of  the  reconstruction  of  the  church,  and  I  was  assured  that 
in  one  case  the  compensation  money  did  its  recipient  little 
good ;  for  he  immediately  set  himself,  as  the  phrase  goes,  to 
"  swallow  it."  But,  indeed,  all  that  remained  of  the  old  church 
was  before  1864  so  hemmed  in  on  all  sides  by  encroaching 
houses,  that  the  work  of  "  buying  out "  must  have  been  one 
of  immense  difficulty  and  patience.  Some  few  of  the  tenants 
have,  it  seems,  proved  very  obdurate  and  grasping;  these, 
however,  are  wisely  left  to  deal  with  till  the  last.  One  window 
in  the  now  cleared  and  restored  "  Lady-Chapel "  is  still 
blocked  by  a  red-tiled,  rambling  building,  a  highly  unnecessary 
but  most  picturesque  parasite  which  has  at  some  period  or 
other  attached  itself  limpet-like  to  the  old  church  wall. 

The  old  church  is,  like  all  London  churches,  dark,  and  it 
requires  a  bright  day  to  be  thoroughly  appreciated.  Lady 
sketchers  are  sometimes  to  be  seen  there,  their  easels  set  up  in 
secluded  nooks.  The  church,  however,  is  generally  more  or 
less  desolate,  a  curious  little  island  of  quiet  after  the  surround- 
ing din  of  the  streets  and  alleys.  Perhaps  one  or  two 
strangers, — Americans  most  likely, — men  by  preference, — may 
be  seen  going  over  it  ;  but  old  city  churches  do  not,  as  a  rule, 
attract  crowds  of  visitors.  Passers-by  can  rarely  direct  you  to 
them,  and  even  dwellers  in  the  district  can  but  seldom  tell  you 
where  they  are.  For  cockneys,  even  "  superior  "  cockneys,  are 
born  and  die  in  London  without  ever  troubling  themselves  over 
the  existence  of  these  ancient  relics  of  the  past.  Yet,  if  the 
natural  beauties  of  St.  Bartholomew  are  great,  greater  still  is 
its  historical  interest.  The  vandalisms  of  the  Reformation, 


62  RAHERE'S  TOM*-  —     — 'CHAP. 

and,  later,  of  the  Protectorate,  have  fortunately  spared  most  of 
its  ancient  monuments,  and  the  tomb  of  Rahere,  the  founder 
and  earliest  prior,  shows  its  recumbent  effigy  still  uninjured 
under  a  vaulted  canopy.  The  tomb  is  on  the  north  side  of 
the  choir,  just  inside  the  communion  rails.  Though  the 
canopy  is  admittedly  the  work  of  a  fifteenth-century  artist,  the 
effigy  is  said  to  belong  to  Rahere's  own  time.  The  founder 
is  represented  in  the  robes  of  his  Order  (the  Augustinian 
Canons) ;  his  head  has  the  monkish  tonsure  ;  a  monk  is  on  each 
side  of  him,  and  an  angel  is  at  his  feet.  The  effigy,  like 
several  other  monuments  in  the  church,  has  been  darkened 
all  over,  probably  by  the  misplaced  zeal  of  Cromwellian  icono- 
clasts, with  sombre  paint ;  this  coating,  however,  has  been  to 
a  great  extent  removed.  (In  some  of  the  other  tombs  .and 
monuments  the  darkening  is  done  with  some  thick  black  pig- 
ment, impossible  entirely  to  remove.)  The  Latin  epitaph  on 
Rahere's  tomb  is  simple  : 

"  Hie  jacet  Raherus  primus  canonicus  et  primus  prior  hujus  ecclesiae." 

Some  twenty  years  ago  the  tomb  was  opened,  and  Rahere's 
skeleton  disclosed,  together  with  a  part  of  a  sandal,  which 
latter  may  be  seen  in  a  glass  case  among  other  relics  in  the 
north  transept. 

Almost  opposite  the  founder's  tomb,  looking  down  from  the 
south  triforium,  is  Prior  Bolton's  picturesque  window,  built  by 
him  evidently  for  the  purpose  of  watching  the  revered  monu- 
ment. Prior  Bolton,  the  most  famous  of  Rahere's  successors, 
ruled  the  convent  from  1506  to  1532;  his  window  is  a  pro- 
jecting oriel,  and  on  a  middle  panel  below  is  carved  his  well- 
known  "  rebus,"  a  "  bolt "  passing  through  a  "  tun  "  ;  this 
rebus  occurs  also  at  other  places  in  the  church. 

The  splendid  alabaster  tomb  of  Sir  Walter  Mildmay,  a 
statesman  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  day,  and  founder  of  Emmanuel 
College,  Cambridge,  should  be  noticed  in  the  south  ambula- 
tory. The  vandalism  of  former  times  had,  curiously  enough, 


in  CURIOUS  INSCRIPTIONS  63 

not  blackened  this  tomb,  but  endued  its  alabaster  with  an 
upper  coating  of  sham  marble  —  now  removed.  The  remainder 
of  the  tombs  and  monuments  will  all  repay  inspection  ;  and 
some  of  the  inscriptions  are  very  quaint.  For  instance,  in  a 
bay  in  the  south  ambulatory  is  a  monument  to  a  certain  John 
Whiting  and  his  wife,  with  the  verse  (nearly  defaced)  from  Sir 
Henry  Wotton  : 

"  Shee  first  deceased,  he  for  a  little  try'cl 
To  live  without  her,  lik'd  it  not  and  cly'd." 

And  in  another  place  is  the  monument  to  Edward  Cooke, 
"philosopher  and  doctor,"  which  is  made  of  a  kind  of  porous 
marble  that  exudes  water  in  damp  weather,  and  has  inscribed 
on  it  the  following  appropriate  epitaph  : 

"  Unsluice,  ye  briny  floods.     What  !  can  ye  keep 
Your  eyes  from  teares,  and  see  the  marble  weep  ? 
Burst  out  for  shame  ;  or  if  ye  find  noe  vent 
For  teares,  yet  stay  and  see  the  stones  relent." 

Yet  the  marble  was  not  altogether  to  be  blamed.  It  is  sad 
to  spoil  a  poetic  illusion  ;  but  it  seems  that  in  old  days  the 
church  was  damp,  so  damp  that  the  rector — if  report  is  to  be 
believed— had  to  preach  sometimes  under  an  umbrella,  and 
the  marble  "  wept "  abundantly.  Now,  however,  that  the 
building  is  repaired  and  properly  warmed,  the  "  stones  relent  " 
no  more. 

St.  Bartholomew  has  had,  too,  its  quota  of  famous  par- 
ishioners. Milton,  that  constant  though  wandering  Londoner, 
lived  close  by  at  one  time,  in  his  "  pretty  garden-house  "  of 
Aldersgate  (that  garden-house  that  was  yet  so  dull  that  his 
young  wife  ran  away  temporarily  both  from  it  and  him  !) ;  and 
the  poet  probably  attended  divine  service  in  the  church. 
Hogarth,  the  painter,  was  baptised  here,  as  the  parish  registers 
tell.  The  congregation  of  the  present  day,  however,  comes, 
as  is  so  often  the  case  with  old  city  churches,  mainly  from  out- 
side. The  immediate  neighbourhood  is  hardly  church-going, 


64  CLOTH  FAIR  CHAP. 

being  a  collection  of  narrow  alleys  and  mysterious  courts. 
And  yet,  in  these  dark  purlieus  of  "  Little  Britain,"  house-room 
is  frightfully  dear,  and  in  the  crumbling  tenements  of  "  Cloth 
Fair,"  a  poor  room  costs  about  6s.  per  week.  As  to  the  popu- 
lation, only  fifteen  years  ago  they  were  rough,  rowdy,  even 
criminal  in  places ;  now,  however,  the  district  is  mainly 
respectable,  although  overcrowded  by  workers — factory  hands, 
private  manufacturers,  widows  who  work  in  City  offices  and 
who  cling  to  the  locality  as  being  near  and  convenient.  It  is 
very  difficult  for  the  authorities  to  obviate  overcrowding  in 
certain  central  London  districts.  Little  Britain,  now  devoted 
to  warehouses  and  tenement  dwellings,  was  in  old  days  filled 
with  book-shops  ;  indeed,  the  whole  district  used  to  be  literary, 
for  Milton  Street,  near  by,  was  the  "  Grub  Street  "  of  Pope's 
obloquy  in  the  Dunciad.  In  Little  Britain  are  still  good  houses 
to  be  seen  here  and  there  ;  and  Cloth  Fair  itself  was  once  in- 
habited by  grandees  and  merchant  princes.  That  dingy  but 
romantic  alley  still  boasts  an  old  lath-and-plaster  house,  that 
once  was  the  Earl  of  Warwick's  ;  its  picturesque  windows  sur- 
mount a  humble  tallow  chandler's  shop ;  but  its  towering 
decrepitude  still  has  dignity,  and  the  Earl's  arms  still  adorn 
its  front.  It  was  good  enough  for  an  Eatl  in  old  days ; 
now,  however,  his  dog  would  hardly  be  allowed  to  sleep 
in  it ! 

When  "  Bartholomew  Fair  "  was  a  great  annual  festivity,  it 
was  in  Cloth  Fair  that  the  famous  "  Court  of  Pie  Powdre  "  used 
to  be  held,  that  court  which,  during  fair-time,  corrected  weights 
and  measures  and  granted  licenses.  It  was  called  the  "  Court 
of  Pie  Powdre  "  because  "  justice  was  done  there  as  speedily  as 
dust  can  fall  from  the  foot." 

In  mediaeval  days,  the  open  space  of  Smith  field — now  a 
meat  market — was,  as  every  one  knows,  a  shambles  of  another 
sort.  Here  suffered  that  noble  army  of  Marian  martyrs,  who 
proudly  for  conscience'  sake  faced  the  flame  ;  here  burned 
those  hideous  fires  that  long  blackened  the  English  name. 


in  THE  SMITHFIELD  MARTYRS  65 

The  little  row  of  houses  facing  Smithfield,— under  which  is 
the  archway  and  dog-toothed  gate  to  the  old  church,  already 
mentioned, — is,  so  far  as  one  can  gather  from  an  old  print, 
little  altered  since  those  cruel  days  when  mayors,  grandees, 
and  respectable  citizens  would  sit  and  watch  the  tortures  of 
poor,  faithful  men  and  women.  Especially  at  the  beautiful 
Anne  Askew's  burning,  "the  multitude  and  concourse,"  says 
Foxe,  "  of  the  people  was  exceeding ;  the  place  where  they 
stood  being  railed  about  to  keep  out  the  press.  Upon  the 
bench  under  St.  Bartholomew's  Church  sate  Wriothesley, 
chancellor  of  England,  the  old  Duke  of  Norfolk,"  etc.  etc.  .  . 
Strange  times,  indeed  !  when,  (said  Byron) : 

"  Christians  did  burn  each  other,  quite  persuaded 
That  all  the  Apostles  would  have  done  as  they  did." 

At  the  Smithfield  fires  perished  in  all  277  persons,  whose 
only  memorial  is  now  an  inscribed  stone  on  the  outer  wall  of 
St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  commemorating  three  of  them  in 
these  words  : 

"  Within  a  few  yards  of  this  spot  John  Rogers,  John  Bradford,  John 
Philpot,  servants  of  God,  suffered  death  by  fire  for  the  faith  of  Christ,  in 
the  years  1555,  1556,  1557." 

Smithfield,  or  Smoothfield  as  it  was  first  called,  was  even  in 
very  early  times  a  place  of  slaughter  and  execution  ;  here  the 
Scotch  patriot,  Sir  William  Wallace,  was  done  to  death  in  1305, 
and  here,  in  1381,  the  rebel  Wat  Tyler  was  slain  by  Sir 
William  Walworth.  Originally  a  tournament  and  tilt  ground, 
Smithfield  was  in  those  days  a  broad  meadow-land  fringed 
with  elms,  beyond  the  old  London  walls.  Miracle-plays, 
public  executions,  tortures,  fairs,  and  burnings  appear  to  have 
taken  place  here  in  indiscriminate  alternation,  until  Smithfield 
became,  first,  the  great  cattle-fair  of  London,  and,  finally,  the 
modern  meat-market.  Its  present  charm,  if  any,  must  be  all 
"  in  the  eye  of  the  seer ; "  for  it  is,  in  truth,  a  noisy,  unattrac- 
tive spot,  with  but  little  suggestion  of  ancient  romance  about  it. 

F 


66 


ST.   BARTHOLOMEW'S  HOSPITAL 


CHAP. 


St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  of  which  the  long  front  faces 
the  market-place,  forms  part  of  Rahere's  original  foundation. 
Refounded  by  Henry  VIII.  after  the  dissolution  of  the  monas- 
teries, it  is  now  almost  the  wealthiest,  as  well  as  the  oldest, 
hospital  in  London.  It  admits  over  100,000  patients  annually, 
and  its  medical  school  is  famous.  Just  within  its  Smithfield 
gateway,  which  dates  from  the  year  1702,  and  is  adorned  by 
a  statute  of  Henry  VIII.,  is  the  church  of  St.  Bartholomew 


St.  Bartholomew's,  Smithfield. 

the  Less,  originally  built  by  Rahere  just  after  his  return 
from  Rome,  but  re-erected  in  1823.  The  spacious  court-yards 
of  the  hospital,  collegiate  in  size  and  cleanliness,  and  pleasantly 
shaded  by  trees,  afford  pretty  and  pathetic  sights.  Here,  on 
fine  days  of  spring  and  summer,  a  few  convalescents,  pale 
and  bandaged,  may  be  seen  sitting  out  and  enjoying  the  fresh 
air  and  sunshine,  talking,  reading,  or  simply  engrossed  in 
watching  a  game  of  ball  played  by  the  students.  Those  boy- 
or  girl-patients  who  are  well  on  the  road  to  recovery,  often 


in  CHARTERHOUSE  SQUARE  67 

tend  or  supervise  still  younger  patients,  the  pretty  white-capped 
nurses  occasionally  lending  a  hand — it  is  a  charming  sight. 
The  last  time  that  I  passed  by  the  Smithfield  front  of  the 
hospital,  a  poor  tramp  lay  prone  on  the  broad  steps  of  the 
patients'  entrance,  and  a  porter  was  sympathetically  and 
tenderly  preparing  to  lift  him  inside  ;  it  was  a  picture  of  the 
Good  Samaritan. 

But  St.  Bartholomew's  precincts  are  not  the  only  "  haunts  of 
peace  "  in  this  noisy  neighbourhood.  Crossing  the  Metropolitan 
Meat  Market,  and  picking  your  way  northward,  through 
innumerable  ugly  tram-lines,  you  presently  reach  the  quiet  and 
restful  Charterhouse  Square,  whence,  through  an  archway,  the 
precincts  of  the  ancient  monastery  are  entered.  Charterhouse 
Square,  once  an  enclosure  of  seventeenth-century  palaces,  is  a 
delightful  old  place  even  yet ;  though  its  sober  residential  look 
of  time-darkened  red  brick  is  now  but  a  blind,  and  it  is  rapidly 
becoming  a  square  of  hotels  and  lodging-houses.  Such  a  fate 
was,  of  course,  inevitable  in  its  case  ;  and  yet  it  seems  mourn- 
ful. The  spot  where  Rutland  House,  the  ancient  residence  of 
the  Venetian  ambassador,  once  stood,  is  only  commemorated 
now  in  the  name  of  Rutland  Place.  The  City  palaces  have 
crumbled  ;  they  have  all  been  rebuilt  in  the  far  West ;  and  even 
Bloomsbury  has  none  left,  except  those  which  are  devoted  to 
the  modern  flat  !  One  of  the  prettiest  houses  now  to  be  seen 
in  the  present  Charterhouse  Square,— its  front  trellised  over  with 
bright  Virginian  creeper,  such  a  house  as  Miss  Thackeray  loved 
to  describe, — is  now  a  "  home  "  fitted  up  by  a  big  city  warehouse 
for  the  accommodation  of  its  working  girls.  The  square  garden 
is  still  nicely  kept ;  Janus-faced,  it  looks  on  to  the  world's  noisy 
mart  on  the  one  side,  and,  on  the  other,  towards  conventual 
peace. 

But  you  must  not  linger  in  Charterhouse  Square  ;  time  is 
passing,  and  the  archway  leading  to  the  ancient  sanctuary 
invites  you.  The  guide-books  tell  you  that  this  archway  is  in 
the  "  Perpendicular  "  style  ;  that  its  projecting  shelf  above  is 

F  2 


68  PRIOR  HOUGHTON'S  STAND  CHAP. 

supported  by  lions  ,  this  and  much  more ;  but  you  do  not 
always  feel  in  a  mood  to  digest  guide-books.  They  are  so 
aggressive  in  their  information,  and  so  distracting  to  one's  own 
thoughts  !  For,  how  many  associations  does  not  this  classic 
abode  recall !  You  can  easily  imagine  groups  of  tonsured, 
cowled  friars,  standing  here  and  there  in  the  shadows  of  the 
quadrangles  ;  one  "  grey  friar  "  of  a  later  time,  with  "  the  order 
of  the  Bath  on  his  breast,"  perhaps,  most  of  all. 

This  Carthusian  monastery,  so  powerful  in  mediaeval  times, 
and  founded  by  Sir  Walter  Manny  as  early  as  1321,  was 
suppressed  by  the  rapacity  of  Henry  VIII,  that  brutal  though 
necessary  reformer.  The  story  of  the  dissolution  is  a  cruel  and 
heartrending  one.  Prior  Houghton,  the-  last  superior  of  the 
monastery,  protested  against  the  king's  spoliation  of  Church 
lands ;  he  was  promptly  convicted  of  high  treason,  and,  with 
several  of  his  monks,  was  "  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered  "  at 
Tyburn.  They  died  gallantly,  and  in  their  deaths  we  revere 
that  true  and  sturdy  spirit  that  still  in  our  own  day  leads 
England  on  to  glory  : 

"  If"  (says  Froude)  "  we  would  understand  the  true  spirit  of  the  time,  we 
must  regard  Catholics  and  Protestants  as  gallant  soldiers,  whose  deaths, 
when  they  fall,  are  not  painful,  but  glorious  ;  and  whose  devotion  we  are 
equally  able  to  admire,  even  where  we  cannot  equally  approve  their  cause. 
Courage  and  self-sacrifice  are  beautiful  alike  in  an  enemy  and  in  a  friend. 
And  while  we  exult  in  that  chivalry  with  which  the  Smithfield  martyrs 
bought  England's  freedom  with  their  blood,  so  we  will  not  refuse  our 
admiration  to  those  other  gallant  men  whose  high  forms,  in  the  sunset 
of  the  old  faith,  stand  transfigured  on  the  horizon,  tinged  with  the  light  of 
its  dying  glory." 

Prior  Houghton's  bloody  arm,  severed  from  his  murdered 
corpse,  was  hung  up  over  the  gateway  of  his  sanctuary,  to  awe 
his  remaining  monks  into  obedience  ;  while  his  head  was 
exposed  on  London  Bridge.  Brutal,  indeed,  were  our  fore- 
fathers of  the  Tudor  time  ! 

The  Charterhouse,  after  the  banishment  and  death  of  its 
monks,  passed  through  the  hands  of  several  of  the  king's 


in  A  PENSIONER  OF  GREY  FRIARS  69 

favourites,  and  came  eventually  into  those  of  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  who  altered  it  considerably,  making  it  less  monastic 
and  more  palatial  in  character.  But  a  new  era  of  usefulness 
awaited  the  ancient  convent ;  better  days  for  it  were  at  hand. 
For  it  was  finally  sold  by  the  Norfolk  family  to  one  Thomas 
Sutton,  a  rich  and  philanthropic  Northumbrian  coal-owner,  who 
converted  it  into  a  "  Hospital "  for  eighty  poor  men,  and  a 
school  for  forty  poor  boys:  The  school,  so  picturesque  in 
Thackeray's  New  comes,  no  longer  exists  here  as  in  old  days  ; 
in  1872,  the  modern  craze  for  fresh  air  transferred  it  to  new 
premises  at  Godalming  ;  and  the  boys'  vacated  buildings  were 
sold  to  the  Merchant  Taylors'  Company  for  their  own  school. 
The  almshouses  for  the  poor  brothers  remain,  however,  just  as 
they  were.  Times  change,  and,  though  the  aged  bedesme^  afe 
yet  poor,  it  is  doubtful  whether  all  the  boys  who  benefit  from 
the  foundation,  can  still  be  called  so.  The  school,  like  other 
foundations  of  its  kind,  probably  now  benefits  a  higher  class 
than  old  Thomas  Sutton  intended. 

Many  noted  men  have  been  pupils  of  the  Charterhouse ; 
Thackeray,  especially,  has  immortalised  his  old  school  if*  his 
touching  description  of  "Founder's  Day"  ;  when  crfd  Colonel 
Newcome,  in  his  turn  both  pupil  and  poor  brother,  sits  humbly 
among  the  aged  pensioners,  clad  in  his  black  gown : 

"  I  chanced  to  look  up  from  my  book  towards  the  swarm  of  black - 
coated  pensioners  :  and  amongst  them — amongst  them — sate  Thomas 
Newcome.  His  dear  old  head  was  bent  down  over  his  prayer-book  ;  there 
was  no  mistaking  him.  He  wore  the  black  gown  of  the  pensioners  of  the 
Hospital  of  Grey  Friars.  His  order  of  the  Bath  was  on  his  breast.  He 
stood  there  among.-t  the  poor  brethren,  uttering  the  responses  to  the  psalm 
...  I  heard  no  more  of  prayers,  and  psalms,  and  sermon,  after  that." 

The  whole  of  the  Charterhouse  breathes  the  old  man's 
spirit ;  is  perambulated  by  his  frail  ghost,  the  shadow  of  a  Grey 
Friar.  The  letters,  "  I.H."  worked  out  in  red  on  the  bricks 
in  Washhouse  Court,  (part  of  the  old  monastery),  though 
supposed  to  show  the  initials  of  the  martyred  Prior  Houghton, 


7o  "FOUNDER'S  DAY"  CHAP. 

are  not  so  vivid  to  us  as  the  little   house  in  the   same  court, 
pointed  out  as  the  place  where  Colonel  Newcome  died  ! 

Ghosts  there  may  be  in  the  Charterhouse,  but  their  identity 
is  not  divulged.  "  Some  people,  '  the  porter  owns,  under 
pressure,  "  have  been  known  to  see  strange  things,"  though  he 
for  his  part  has  only  come  across  rats,  so  far.  Perhaps  the 
boys  have  "  laid "  them  !  boys,  it  must  be  confessed,  would 
make  short  work  of  most  ghosts.  The  boys,  on  the  "  Founder's 
Day  "  mentioned  by  Thackeray,  used  always  to  sing  the  Car- 
thusian chorus  in  the  old  merchant's  honour : 

"  Then  blessed  be  the  memory 
Of  good  old  Thomas  Sutton, 
Who  gave  us  lodging,  learning, 
As  well  as  beef  and  mutton." 

They  sing  it  still,  no  doubt,  equally  heartily  at  Godalming ; 
yet,  surely,  some  among  them  must  yearn  for  the  historic 
associations  of  the  old  place.  But,  indeed,  all  the  ancient 
schools  are  going,  or  gone,  from  the  City ;  St.  Paul's  School  is 
moved  to  Hammersmith ;  the  picturesque  Christ's  Hospital  is 
just  disintegrated;  its  characteristic  Lares  and  Penates  are 
removed  to  Horsham  ;  and  the  passengers  along  noisy  Newgate 
Street  will  no  longer  stay  to  enjoy  the  romps  and  the  football 
of  the  yellow-legged,  blue-coated  boys. 

The  brick  courts  of  the  Charterhouse  have  a  solid  and 
collegiate  air  ;  its  small  Jacobean  chapel,  of  which  the  groined 
entrance  alone  dates  from  monastic  times,  contains  a  splendid 
alabaster  tomb  of  the  Founder.  Here  is  Thackeray's  striking 
description  of"  a  "  Founder's  Day  "  service  : 

"  The  boys  are  already  in  their  seats,  with  smug  fresh  faces,  and  shining 
white  collars  ;  the  old  black-gowned  pensioners  are  on  their  benches ; 
the  chapel  is  lighted,  and  Founder's  Tomb,  with  it-  grotesque  carvings, 
monsters,  heraldries,  darkles  and  shines  with  the  most  wonderful  shadows 
and  lights.  There  he  lies,  Fundator  Noster,  in  his  ruff  and  gown,  awaiting 
the  great  Examination  Day.  .  .  Yonder  sit  forty  cherry-cheeked  boys, 
thinking  about  home  and  holidays  to-morrow.  Yonder  sit  some  three- 


in  THE  CHARTERHOUSE  BUILDINGS  71 

score  old  gentlemen  of  the  hospital,  listening  to  the  prayers  and  the  psalms. 
You  hear  them  coughing  feebly  in  the  twilight, — the  old  reverend  blackgowns 
...  A  plenty  of  candles  lights  up  this  chapel,  and  this  scene  of  age  and 
youth,  and  early  memories,  and  pompous  death.  How  solemn  the  well- 
remembered  prayers  are,  here  uttered  again  in  the  place  where  in  childhood 
we  used  to  hear  them  !  How  beautiful  and  decorous  the  rite  ;  how  noble 
the  ancient  words  of  the  supplications  which  the  priest  utters,  and  to  which 
generations  of  fresh  children,  and  troops  of  bygone  seniors  have  cried 
Amen  !  under  those  arches  !  The  service  for  Founder's  Day  is  a  special 
one ;  one  of  the  psalms  selected  being  the  thirty-seventh,  and  we  hear — 
'  v.  23.  The  steps  of  a  good  man  are  ordered  by  the  Lord  :  and  he  delighteth 
in  his  way.  24.  Though  he  fall,  he  shall  not  be  utterly  cast  down  :  for  the 
Lord  upholdeth  him  with  his  hand.  25.  I  have  been  young,  and  now  am  old  ; 
yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging  their  bread.'  " 

The  Carthusians,  as  visitors  to  the  monastery  of  the  "  Grande 
Chartreuse  "  already  know,  lived  almost  entirely  in  small  houses 
of  their  own.  These  exist  here  no  longer,  but  the  ancient 
brick  cloister  that  extends  along  the  playground  belongs  to 
the  old  convent.  The  many  rambling  courts  and  low  buildings 
of  the  Charterhouse  are,  no  doubt,  puzzling  on  a  first  visit. 
"  There  is,"  says  Thackeray,  "an  old  Hall,  a  beautiful  specimen 
of  the  architecture  of  James's  time ;  an  old  Hall  ?  many  old 
halls ;  old  staircases,  old  passages,  old  chambers  decorated 
with  old  portraits,  walking  in  the  midst  of  which,  we  walk  as 
it  were  in  the  early  seventeenth  century."  The  dining-hall, 
which  used  to  be  the  monastic  guest-chamber,  is  used  now  by 
the  old  bedesmen  ;  it  is  fine,  with  its  dark  panelling  and  its  look 
of  comfortable  solidity.  This  was  the  part  of  the  old  Charter- 
house adapted  for  his  own  dwelling  by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk ; 
and  the  wide  Elizabethan  staircase,  leading  to  ,the  "  Officers' 
Library,"  is  almost  exactly  as  it  was  in  his  time.  A  curfew, 
tolled  every  evening  at  eight  or  nine  o'clock  p.m.,  proclaims 
the  number  of  the  poor  brethren.  It  was  with  reference  to 
this  custom  that  Thackeray  wrote  his  infinitely  touching  de- 
scription of  the  death  of  Thomas  Newcome  : 

"At  the  usual  evening  hour  the  chapel  bell  began  to  toll,  and  Thomas 
Newcome's  hands  outside  the  bed  feebly  beat  time.  And  just  as  the  last  bell 


72  ST.  JOHN'S  GATE,  CLERKENWELL  CHAP. 

struck,  a  peculiar  sweet  smile  shone  over  his  face,  and  he  lifted  up  his  head 
a  little,  and  quickly  said  '  Adsum?  and  fell  back.  It  was  the  word  we 
used  at  school,  when  names  were  called ;  and  lo,  he,  whose  heart  was  as 
that  of  a  little  child,  had  answered  to  his  name,  and  stood  in  the  presence 
of  The  Master." 

But  the  Charterhouse  has  now  come  more  or  less  to  be  a 
"  show  place  "  ;  and,  interesting  as  are  visits  to  the  show  places 
of  London,  I  often  think  that  a  mere  aimless  ramble  through 
the  streets  of  the  City  is  more  soothing  and  refreshing  to  the 
average  mind.  Human  nature  is  contradictory,  delighting  in 
the  unexpected ;  also,  so  far  as  lasting  impressions  go,  it  is 
incapable  of  thoroughly  taking  in  much,  at  one  time.  Every- 
body knows  that  places  where  you  are  "shown  round"  are 
fatiguing ;  what  you  really  enjoy  is  what  you  can  find  out  for 
your  own  poor  self.  In  London  streets,  the  unexpected  is 
always  happening ;  thus,  through  the  hideous  plate  glass  of  a 
bar  parlour,  you  may  catch  glimpses  of  waving  trees  and  grey 
towers,  and  even  the  dreadful  glare  of  London  advertisement 
hoardings  does  not  "wholly  abolish  or  destroy"  the  ancient 
charm  of  the  crowded,  irregular  City  streets.  A  City  of  parallel 
lines  and  squares,  such  as  the  Colonials  love !  Perish  the 
thought !  Let  them  widen  Southampton  Row  if  they  will, 
remove  Holywell  Street  and  King  Street  if  they  list ;  but  let 
us  at  any  rate  keep  to  our  old  and  devious  ways  through  the 
heart  of  the  City  ! 

Just  west  of  the  Charterhouse,  reached  from  Smithfield  by 
St.  John  Street,  is  another  stranded  islet  of  the  past,  St. 
John's  Gate,  Clerkenwell.  This  is  the  only  remaining  relic  of 
the  mediaeval  Priory  of  St.  John,  the  chief  English  seat  of  the 
"  Knights  Hospitallers  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem,"  founded  in 
Henry  I.'s  reign  by  a  baron  named  Jordan  Briset  and  Muriel 
his  wife.  The  early  Priory  was  burnt  by  the  rebels  under  Wat 
Tyler,  and,  when  rebuilt,  the  newer  building  was  used  in  many 
reigns  as  a  resort  of  royalty.  After  many  vicissitudes,  the 
Order  of  St.  John's  Knights  was  suppressed  by  that  arch- 


in  DR.  JOHNSON  IN  ST.  JOHN'S  GATE  73 

iconoclast  Henry  VIII.  who,  for  the  purpose,  resorted  to  his 
usual  persuasive  methods  of  beheading,  hanging,  and  quartering. 
Nevertheless,  the  Priory  continued  to  be  used  as  a  Royal 
residence  by  Henry's  daughter,  Mary.  The  fragment  of  the 
old  building  that  remains  to  us  is  its  south  gate,  built  by 
Prior  Docwra  in  1504.  It  is  a  fine  bit  of  perpendicular 
architecture ;  on  the  gateway's  north  side  are  the  arms  of 
Docwra  and  of  his  Order,  on  the  south  side,  those  of  France 
and  England.  In  the  centre  of  the  groined  roof  is  the  Lamb 
bearing  a  flag,  kneeling  on  the  Gospels.  The  rest  of  the 
Priory  buildings  have  long  vanished ;  destroyed,  for  the  most 
part,  by  the  ambitious  Protector  Somerset,  by  whose  order 
they  were  blown  up  for  building  materials  for  his  fine  new 
Strand  palace.  The  later  history  of  the  old  Gate  is  mainly 
journalistic ;  demonstrating  that  typical  change  from  the  calm 
of  conventual  seclusion  to  the  thunder  of  printing-press 
publicity,  so  common  in  central  London.  Dr.  Johnson  lived 
here  in  his  early  days  of  hack  work  in  the  old  rooms  above 
the  Gate,  working  for  Cave  the  printer,  the  founder  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  at  so  much  per  sheet,  and  living 
here  an  inky,  dirty,  hermit-like  existence*;  seeing  no  one,  and 
"  eating  his  food  behind  a  screen,  being  too  shabby  for  publicity." 
The  chair  he  used  is  still  treasured.  (St.  John's  Gate  is  a 
familiar  object  to  many  who  have  not  really  seen  it,  owing  to 
its  representation,  in  pale  purple,  on  the  outside  cover  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine?)  The  gate  is  now  appropriately 
occupied  by  the  Order  of  St.  John,  a  charitable  institution 
devoted  to  ambulance  and  hospital  work.  Part  of  the  old 
priory  church  may  be'  seen  in  the  fine  Norman  crypt  of  St. 
John's  Church  close  by.  People  used  to  visit  this  crypt  to  see 
the  coffin  (now  buried),  of  "  Scratching  Fanny,  the  Cock  Lane 
Ghost "  :  this  was  a  fraud  perpetrated  by  a  girl  and  her  father, 
for  gain.  A  plausible  story  was  invented,  and  many  notable 
people  were  duped  by  it ;  but  by  Dr.  Johnson's  investigations 
the  hoax  was  at  length  discovered. 


74  "ANNO  VICTORIAE"  CHAP. 

A  ramble  down  Bishopsgate,  in  the  inconsequent  way  already 
suggested,  will  be  found  thoroughly  enjoyable ;  though  it  has, 
of  course,  the  defect  of  being  exceptionally  easy  of  accomplish: 
ment.  For  this  purpose,  an  omnibus  to  the  Mansion  House 
will  land  you  exactly  where  you  want  to  be.  I  may  add  that 
it  is  very  important  to  choose  a  fine  day  for  the  excursion,  a 
day  when  those  imposing  golden  letters  on  the  Royal  Exchange 
— the  "  Anno  Elizabethae  "  and  "  Anno  Victoriae  " — glitter 
like  so  many  suns  above  the  unceasing  whirlpool  of  human  life 
and  energy  below.  Have  you  ever  thought,  as  you  looked  on 
those  golden  letters,  how  interesting  they  may  prove  to  some 
future  antiquary  ?  Like  the  "  M.  Agrippa  Cos  Tertium 
Fecit  "  on  the  Roman  Pantheon,  they  tell,  proudly,  of  the  glory 
of  a  great  nation.  It  is  noteworthy  that  the  names  of  two 
queens  should  here  represent  England's  highest  fame,  and 
commemorate  thus,  in  close  juxtaposition,  the  Elizabethan 
and  Victorian  Age. 

The  Victorian  Age,  however,  with  its  bustle  and  movement, 
is  very  much  with  us  as  we  approach  Bishopsgate  along  the 
route  of  Holborn  Viaduct.  If  you  elect  to  travel  on  the  top  of 
an  omnibus,  you  will  find  that  Newgate  Street  and  Cheapside 
show,  in  turn  and  on  each  side,  a  scintillating  kaleidoscope  of 
light  and  colour.  Rambles  are  all  very  well  in  their  way ;  but, 
under  some  circumstances,  Mr.  Gladstone's  dictum  was  a  right 
one  ;  the  top  of  an  omnibus  is  a  wonderful  point  of  view.  So 
we  will  go  on  a  'bus  to  the  Mansion  House,  and  ramble  after- 
wards. First  comes  St.  Paul's,  its  imposing  dome  rising 
majestically  in  ponderous  blackness  through  its  surrounding 
greenery ;  then  the  gloomy  walls  of  grim  Newgate  prison ; 
next,  the  pale,  ghost-like  spire  of  St.  Mary-le-Bow,  shining  over 
its  blackened  base  and  the  many-coloured  street  vista  below, 
and,  finally,  the  great  civic  buildings  of  the  City  proper,  forming 
in  the  sunlight,  a  sort  of  white-and-golden  circle,  a  central 
focusing  point  of  colour  and  energy,  whence  diverge,  like  so 
many  wheel- spokes,  all  the  great  business  thoroughfares.  The 


in  THE  ROYAL  EXCHANGE  75 

stranger,  set  down  here  for  the  first  time,  generally  completely 
loses  his  bearings,  and  even  the  practised  Londoner  sometimes 
finds  himself  at  a  loss.  (In  a  "  London  particular "  he  may 
even  find  himself  in  a  very  Inferno.)  But  the  cool  inner  court- 
yard of  the  Royal  Exchange,  sought  as  a  refuge,  will  speedily 
restore  his  disordered  faculties,  and  give  him  time  to  get  out 
his  pocket-map.  Here,  let  into  the  inner  wall  of  the  colonnade, 
are  modern  paintings  of  scenes  in  the  history  of  London  by 
eminent  artists,  among  which  the  contrasted  pictures  of  the 
two  great  queens  (respectively  by  Ernest  Crofts  and  R.  W. 
Macbeth)  carry  out  something  of  the  feeling  suggested  by  the 
gold-lettered  pediment.  Elizabeth,  on  a  spirited  charger, 
golden-haired  and  in  picturesque  sixteenth  century  dress,  opens 
Sir  Thomas  Gresham's  earlier  building  ;  Victoria,  a  slim  girlish 
figure,  standing  between  the  "great  Duke  "  and  Prince  Albert, 
inaugurates  the  later. 

Round  about  the  "  Exchange  "  precincts,  several  sensible, 
sober,  and  practical-looking  gentlemen  sit,  casually,  on  stone 
chairs  ;  Mr.  Peabody  is  on  one  side,  Sir  Rowland  Hill,  the 
penny  postage  reformer,  is  on  the  other.  So  far  as  I  have 
seen,  they  are  the  only  people  in  this  crowded  ant-heap  who 
have  any  leisure  for  sitting  down  !  Opposite  the  Royal  Ex- 
change, at  No.  15  Cornhill,  is  a  little  shop  of  old  time  — Birch 
and  Birch— painted  in  green  and  red.  It  is  a  very  unassuming 
little  confectioner's  shop,  and  its  tiny,  abridged  shop-front  with 
the  narrow  panes  of  glass  has  certainly  an  antique  look.  But 
not  unassuming  are  the  civic  banquets  which  this  firm  is  often 
called  upon  to  supply.  The  churches  in  the  narrow  street  of 
Cornhill  come  upon  the  pedestrian,  if,  indeed,  they  come  upon 
him  at  all,  as  surprises.  Of  St.  Michael's  nothing  can  te  seen 
from  the  street  but  its  tower  and  richly-carved  modern  door- 
way fixed  between  two  plate-glass  shop-fronts.  The  doorway 
has  projecting  heads  and  a  relief  of  St.  Michael  weighing  souls  ; 
a  business-like  proceeding,  I  may  remark,  that  well  befits  the 
City.  Further  on,  comes  St.  Peter-upon-Cornhill,  the  body  of 


76  CITY  CARETAKERS  CHAP. 

the  church  completely  masked  by  shops,  and  only  the  tower  to 
be  seen  over  the  roofs  from  the  further  side  of  the  street. 
Most  of  these  City  churches  are  open  at  mid-day,  and  the 
stranger  is  usually  free  to  walk  round  and  see  what  he  will, 
without  let  or  hindrance,  ignored  by  the  sextoness  or  pew- 
opener,  who  is  generally  a  superior  old  lady  in  black  silk, 
attached  to  the  church  some  thirty  or  forty  years,  and  almost 
as  much  a  part  of  it  as  its  furniture.  Church  caretakers'  lives- 
must  be  healthier  than  one  would  imagine,  for  they  seem,  as  a 
race,  given  to  longevity.  Visitors  are  rarely  encouraged  in 
London  churches.  The  charwomen  employed  in  scrubbing 
the  aisles  seem  to  regard  intruders  as  unnecessary  nuisances. 
"  Church  shut  for  to-day,"  one  cried  triumphantly  when  she 
saw  me  coming.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that,  when  Thackeray 
edited  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  his  editorial  window  looked  out 
upon  this  church  of  St.  Peter.  Now,  Bishopsgate  Street  turns 
down  out  of  Cornhill  to  the  left,  and  spacious  banks,  built  in 
varying  degrees  of  splendour,  line  the  thoroughfare. 

Close  by,  in  Threadneedle  Street,  was  the  old  "  South  Sea 
House,"  noted  for  the  famous  "  Bubble  "  of  1720,  that  ruined 
so  many  thousands.  E.  M.  Ward's  picture  of  the  wild  excite- 
ment caused  by  the  "  Bubble  "  in  the  neighbouring  Change 
Alley,  is  well  known.  In  Bishopsgate  Street,  almost  opposite 
Crosby  Hall,  is  the  splendid  "  National  and  Provincial  Bank," 
unique  in  sumptuousness,  its  large  hall  lined  with  polished 
granite  columns  in  the  Byzantine-Romanesque  style— a  style, 
one  would  think,  more  ecclesiastical  than  financial.  If  they  had 
dug  this  sort  of  place  out  of  old  Pompeii,  what  would  the 
antiquaries  have  called  it  ?  No  statues  of  Plutus  or  of 
Mercury  would  have  helped  them  to  their  finding  !  Alas  !  in 
our  foggy  climate,  we  dare  not  indulge  ourselves  with  sculptured 
Lares  and  Penates  ;  and  we  must  needs  content  ourselves 
with  those  few  square-toed,  frock-coated  celebrities  whose 
statues,  of  gigantic  size,  confront  us  at  our  chief  partings  of  the 
roads.  They  have,  certainly,  gathered  funereal  trappings  galore 


in  GREAT  ST.   HELEN'S  77 

in  their  time  ;  their  grime  and  blackness  deceive  even  the 
wary  London  sparrows,  who  build  their  nests  fearlessly  about 
the  giants'  heads  and  shoulders. 

To  return  to  Bishopsgate  Street :  Crosby  Hall,  the  ancient 
mediaeval  palace  and  modern  restaurant,  to  which  I  have  before 
alluded,  is,  though  much  repaired  and  repainted,  still  dignified  ; 
in  the  interior  of  the  restaurant  all  details  are  carefully  studied, 
even  to  the  antique  china  stands  for  glasses,  and  the  old- 
fashioned  spotted  cambric  dresses  of  the  serving-maids. 

Close  by  Crosby  Hall  is  the  turning  into  Great  St.  Helen's  ; 
indeed,  the  long  windows  of  the  hall  back  on  to  the  square  of  that 
name.  This  curious  old  convent  church,  set  in  its  little  secluded 
enclosure,  has  been  called  "  the  Westminster  Abbey  of  the  City." 
It  is  certainly  rich  in  historical  tombs  and  monuments.  Origin- 
ally founded  in  the  i3th  century  as  the  "Priory  of  St.  Helen's 
for  Nuns  of  the  Benedictine  Order,"  its  accessories  have,  like 
those  of  St.  Bartholomew  the  Great,  been  long  removed  and 
built  over,  and  its  cloisters  exist  no  more.  Yet  what  remains 
of  it  is  full  of  interest.  It  is  comparatively  very  unvisited.  The 
last  time  I  was  there,  I  noticed  one  depressed  American, 
"  doing "  the  tombs  sadly.  I  felt  for  him,  for  though  it  was 
only  3  o'clock  on  an  October  day,  it  was  much  too  dark  to 
read  or  see,  and  he  had  evidently  lost  himself  among  the 
monuments.  The  sextoness,  who  was  apparently  engaged  in 
the  careful  brushing  of  her  black  silk  dress  in  the  vestry,  was 
much  too  superior  to  notice  him.  St.  Helen's  is  a  dark  church 
at  any  time  ;  on  this  occasion  a  "  London  particular  "  was  also 
impending,  and  even  the  gold  letters  on  Sir  Thomas  Gresham's 
massive  tomb  scarcely  showed  in  the  fading  light.  But  it  was 
a  picturesque  scene,  despite  the  sad  lack  of  "  glory  on  the  walls." 
The  old  knights  and  ladies,  motionless  on  their  narrow  beds, 
glimmered  in  ghostly  fashion,  silent  witnesses  of  the  flight  of 
the  centuries.  The  quaint,  stiff  effigies,  clad  in  ruff  and 
farthingale, — while  they  have  knelt  there,  how  many  generations, 
in  the  turbulent  world  outside,  have  been  born  and  died  ? 


78  THE  NUNS'  GRATE  CHAP. 

Bancroft's  unwieldy  tomb  is  gone  from  its  old  place  ;  else  you 
might  well  have  imagined  the  shade  of  the  eccentric  philan- 
thropist stealing  from  it  by  night,  pressing  back  its  careful 
hinges,  and  fumbling  for  the  bread  and  wine  that  he  had 
ordered  by  will  to  be  placed  near  by  for  his  awakening.  You 
mistook,  in  the  dim  light,  Sir  John  Spencer's  kneeling  heiress- 
daughter  for  a  guardian  angel,  and  you  were  awed  by  the  still, : 
calm  medievalism  of  the  altar-tomb  of  the  Crosbys.  ...  It  was. 
all  so  vague  and  so  misty  that  the  mind  really  seemed  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  general  fog,  and  I  remember  gazing  vaguely  on 
the  words,  "Julius  Caesar," — inscribed,  in  enormous  letters,  on 
a  sumptuous  altar-tomb, — feeling  that  I  fervently  sympathised 
with  the  royal  lady  who,  when  shown  the  magic  name,  is  said 
to  have  remarked  naively  : 

"  But  I  always  thought  that  Julius  Caesar  was  buried  in  Rome ! " 
It  is  surely  very  unfair  for  individuals  to  perpetrate  post- 
mortem puzzles  of  the  kind  !  For  this  "  Julius  Caesar,"  (who, 
by-the-way,  gained  his  false  honours  by  dropping  his  surname) 
was  merely  a  Judge  and  a  Master  of  the  Rolls  of  Elizabeth's 
day,  and,  evidently,  as  shown  by  his  tomb,  designed  by  him- 
self, what  is  called  "  a  crank  "  also.  When  I  had  got  over  the 
"  Julius  Caesar  "  deception,  I  sympathised  duly  with  the  large 
family  of  "  John  Robinson,  alderman,"  whose  children  form  a 
long  kneeling  procession  behind  him  ;  and  still  more  did  I 
mourn  for  those  unhappy  nuns  who,  poor  things,  were 
immured  in  the  darkness  behind  "  the  Nuns'  Grate,"  or 
"  hagioscope  "  ;  their  scant  peepholes  so  unkindly  devised  that 
they  could  only  see  the  altar,  and  not  the  congregation  !  These 
"  Black  Nuns  "  of  St.  Helen's  must,  nevertheless,  one  thinks, 
have  been  often  but  naughty,  giggling  school-girls,  despite 
their  show  of  conventual  discipline.  Perhaps,  as  Chaucer 
would  have  us  believe,  such  discipline  was  but  lax  in  England 
in  the  middle  ages.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  find,  at  one  time, 
no  less  authorities  than  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  St.  Paul's 
admonishing  them  thus  : 


ST.  ETHELBURGA 


79 


"  Also  we  enjoyne  you,  that  all  daunsyng  and  reveling  be  utterly  forborne 
among  you,  except  at  Christmasse,  and  other  honest  tymys  of  recreacyone, 
among  yourselfe  usyd,  in  absence  of  seculars  in  alle  wyse." 

Of  the  two  aisles  that  form  the  church,  the  "  Nuns'  Aisle  "  is 
that  to  the  left  as  you  enter,  and  the  steps  to  their  destroyed 
cloister  (now  blocked  up)  open  out  of  it.  The  little  garden 
plot  outside  the  church  is  neatly  kept,  and  on  my  last  visit  I 
noticed  some  gardeners  putting  in  a  plentiful  supply  of  bulbs 
for  spring  blooming.  Doubtless,  the  "  Black  Nuns  "  enjoyed 
among  their  other  "recreacyones,"  a  lovely  and  a  well-ordered 
convent  garden  outside  their  cloister ;  "  cherry  trees "  are 
specially  mentioned  in  St.  Helen's  register ;  and,  as  we  know, 
the  London  of  that  day  grew  many  luscious  fruits. 

Farther  down  Bishopsgate  Street,  is  the  tiny  church  of  St. 
Ethelburga,  uninteresting  as  regards  its  interior,  but  one  of  the 
oldest  existing  churches  in  London,  and  certainly  the  smallest. 
It  escaped  the  ravages  of  the  Great  Fire,  and  history  mentions 
it  as  early  as  1366.  I  passed  it  three  times  without  noticing 
it,  for  its  little  spirelet  rises  but  slightly  above  the  roofs  of  the 
intervening  shops,  and  its  tiny  doorway,  labelled  itself  like  a 
small  shop,  is  easily  overlooked  between  two  projecting 
windows.  (The  smallness  of  the  place  can  be  imagined  from  the 
fact  that,  only  a  few  doors  from  it,  no  one  can  be  found  to 
direct  you  to  it.)  The  verger  lives  in  a  very  picturesque  and 
overhanging  slum-alley  close  by ;  though  his  abode  suggests 
Fagin,  he  is,  nevertheless,  an  amiable  and  obliging  gentleman. 

Just  east  of  Bishopsgate  is  Houndsditch  (its  somewhat  un- 
pleasantly suggestive  name  commemorating  the  ancient  City 
moat),  with,  near  by,  the  Jewish  quarter  of  St.  Mary  Axe, 
"Rag  Fair,"  and  Petticoat  Lane  (now  Middlesex  Street), 
noted,  like  Brick  Lane,  Spitalfields,  for  its  Sunday  morning 
markets.  Why  is  the  Jewish  quarter  so  invariably  concerned 
with  old  clothes  ?  As  the  rhyme  says  : 

"  Jews  of  St.  Mary  Axe,  of  jobs  so  wary 

That  for  old  clothes  they'd  even  axe  St.  Mary." 


So  BEVIS  MARKS  CHAP. 

Close  by  Houndsditch  is  Bevis  Marks  (Bury's  Marks), 
now  descended  from  its  ancient  glories ;  it  used  to  con- 
tain the  City  mansion,  "  fair  courts  and  garden  plots,"  of 
the  Abbots  of  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  but  now  principally  recalls 
Dickens's  unsavoury  characters,  Miss  Sally  Brass  and  her 
brother  Sampson  (in  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop).  Here,  once 
again,  Dickens  gets  thoroughly  the  strange,  semi-human  spirit 
of  London  slums  and  by-ways ;  it  is  in  such  places  that  his 
genius  attains  its  highest  flights.  That  he  was  always,  too, 
very  careful  as  regarded  his  details,  is  shown  in  a  letter  on 
this  subject  to  his  friend  Forster.  He  spent  (he  says),  a  whole 
morning  in  Bevis  Marks,  selecting  : 

"the  office  window,  with  its  threadbare  green  curtain  all  awry  ;  its  sill 
just  above  the  two  steps  which  lead  from  the  side-walk  to  the  office  door,* 
and  so  close  on  the  footway  that  the  passenger  who  takes  the  wall  brushes 
the  dim  glass  with  his  elbow." 

It  seems,  however,  almost  too  invidious  to  select  special 
rambles.  For,  the  whole  of  this  heart  of  the  city, — except 
only  for  certain  well-defined  "  infernos "  of  modern  industry 
and  ugliness,  such  as  the  great  Liverpool-Street  terminus,  must 
be  deeply  interesting  to  every  Londoner  and  every  Englishman. 
Even  in  comparatively  dull  streets,  lined  with  warehouses  and 
offices,  there  will  always  be  some  little  oasis  to  rest  and  refresh 
the  wanderer.  Suppose  that,  instead  of  going  up  Cornhill,  you 
take  another  wheel-spoke  from  the  Mansion-House ;  say 
Lombard-Street,  the  home  par  excellence  of  the  bankers. 
This  street  is  solid  and  stately,  as  you  would  expect ;  the  very 
name  has  a  moneyed  ring  about  it !  The  derivation  of  the 
name,  by-the-way,  is  curious ;  it  comes  from  Lombard  bankers 
who  appear  to  have  settled  here  at  an  early  date ;  the  street 
bore  their  name  in  the  reign  of  Edward  II.  The  square 
tower,  crowned  by  an  octagonal  spire,  that  rises  on  the  north 
side  of  Lombard  Street,  is  that  of  the  church  of  St.  Edmund 
the  King  and  Martyr,  in  which  was  made  poor  Addison's  not 
too  happy  marriage  with  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Warwick  and 


in  ANCIENT  BYWAYS  FROM  CHEAPSIDE  81 

Holland.  Still  continuing  east,  past  Gracechurch  Street,  we 
come  to  Fenchurch  Street,  a  thoroughfare  that  runs  parallel 
with  the  busy  mart  of  Eastcheap,  famed  in  Shakespeare,  and 
possibly  no  less  dirty  and  noisy  than  it  was  in  Dame  Quickly's 
time.  Out  of  Fenchurch  Street  opens  Mincing  Lane,  a  name 
that  commemorates  the  "  minchens  "  or  nuns  of  St.  Helen's  ; 
that  convent  owned  a  great  deal  of  property  about  here.  The 
Clothworkers'  Hall,  close  by,  is  reached  through  an  iron  gate ; 
its  garden,  or  court,  is  formed  by  the  ancient  churchyard  of  All 
Hallows,  Staining,  a  church  destroyed,  all  but  its  tower,  by  the 
Great  Fire,  and  not  rebuilt.  The  tower  of  All  Hallows,  a 
stranded  fragment  of  antiquity,  forms  the  centre  piece  of  the 
garden  court,  where  its  effect  is  most  curious  and  striking. 

The  narrow  old  streets  that  lead  north  out  of  Cheapside, 
the  "  Chepe  "  of  the  middle  ages,  with  their  quaint  old  names, 
afford  many  pleasant  rambles.  In  Wood  Street,  the  old 
plane-tree,  still  standing,  recalls  Wordsworth's  poem.  Milk 
Street  leads  by  the  old  church  of  St.  Mary  Aldermanbury, 
with  the  statue  of  Shakespeare  in  its  little  churchyard,  to  the 
still  visible  bastions  of  London  Wall,  and  along  the  street  of 
that  name,  to  Cripplegate.  The  church  of  St.  Giles,  Cripple- 
gate,  is  interesting  ;  its  churchyard,  too,  is  a  green  and  favoured 
spot.  A  street  of  warehouses  near  it  was  burned  down  quite 
recently  with  terrible  loss,  and  the  church  itself  was  threatened, 
but  fortunately  escaped  ;  but  the  streets,  no\y  rebuilt,  look, 
thanks  to  the  City's  wonderful  recuperative  powers,  as  solid 
and  as  flourishing  as  ever.  The  noisy  thoroughfare  of  Fore 
Street,  lined  with  warehouses  and  foundries,  is  built  upon  the 
ancient  line  of  wall,  which  also  appears,  black  against  sun- 
flowers, asters,  and  greenery,  in  St.  Giles's  churchyard  and 
rectory  garden.  This  part  of  the  City  wall  is  probably  of 
Edward  IV.'s  time.  Portions  of  the  old  Roman  wall  have 
indeed  been  discovered  here  and  there  in  the  City  ;  a  large 
fragment  of  it  was,  for  instance,  laid  bare  at  the  building  of 
the  new  departments  of  the  General  Post  Office  in  1891. 

G 


82  LONDON  WALL  CHAP. 

But  the  oldest  fragments  of  wall  existing  near  Cripplegate  are, 
though  black,  grimy,  and  mouldering,  probably  Norman  or 
Saxon.  Roman  relics  that  have  been  discovered  in  the  City  are 
on  view,  some  at  the  Guildhall,  others  in  the  British  Museum ; 
the  most  interesting  of  them  all,  however,  is  still  in  situ,  being 
the  large  fragment  called  "London  Stone," built  into  St.  Swithin's 
Church  opposite  the  Cannon  Street  Terminus  ;  supposed  to 
be  a  "  milliarium,"  or  milestone,  and  possibly,  like  the  golden 
milestone  in  the  Roman  Forum,  "  a  central  mark  whence  the 
great  Roman  roads  radiated  all  over  England." 

The  street  called  "  London  Wall "  testifies  to  the  care  of  the 
City  for  its  ancient  monuments.  The  ruins  of  the  old  fortifications 
are  carefully  built  up,  embanked,  and  made  picturesque  by  a 
narrow  strip  of  greenery  that  was  once  the  churchyard  of  St. 
Alphage  over  the  way.  They  are  railed  in  from  injury,  and  a 
memorial  tablet  is  affixed.  The  dwellers  in  the  district  still,  how- 
ever, seem  densely  ignorant  as  to  its  meaning.  I  lately  asked 
several  youthful  inhabitants,  engaged  in  the  fascinating  pavement 
game  of  "  hop-scotch,"  what  they  supposed  the  place  was.  They 
could  not  answer.  The  School  Board,  if  rumour  speaks  truly, 
is  surely  doing  well  to  include  the  history  of  London  in  its 
curriculum. 

The  street  of  London  Wall  has  the  distinction  of  possessing 
the  very  ugliest  church  in  the  metropolis,  that  of  St.  Alphage. 
It  has,  indeed,  the  one  merit  of  being  so  small  as  easily  to 
escape  notice ;  though  hardly  its  ancient  foundation,  or  the 
interesting  monument  inside  it  to  Lord  Mayor  Sir  Rowland 
Hayward's  two  wives  and  sixteen  "  happy  children,"  redeem  it 
from  utter  dreariness. 

But  we  must  now  desist  from  our  rambles,  though  there  is 
yet  much  to  see ;  night  is  falling ;  that  mysterious  night  that 
brings  such  strange  contrast  to  the  City  streets  ;  the  wild,  fitful 
fever  of  their  long  day  is  ended,  and  they  are  left  to  silence. 
The  busy  throng  of  workers  hurries  homeward  ;  soon,  in  the 
highways  scarcely  a  belated  footfall  resounds,  while  in  the 


in  NIGHT  IN  THE  CITY  83 

byways,  by  day  so  crowded,  there  reigns  a  calm  as  of  the  sea 
at  rest ;  like  the  sea's,  too,  is  that  faint,  unceasing  tremor  of 
the  great  City,  the  City  that  never  sleeps.  To  quote  the  poet  of 
"  Cockaigne  "  : 

"  Temples  of  Mammon  are  voiceless  again — 
Lonely  policemen  inherit  Mark  Lane — 
Silent  is  Lothbury — quiet  Cornhill — 
Babel  of  Commerce,  thine  echoes  are  still. 

"  Westward  the  stream  of  humanity  glides  ;— 
'Buses  are  proud  of  their  dozen  insides  ; 
Put  up  thy  shutters,  grim  Care,  for  to-day, 
Mirth  and  the  lamplighter  hurry  this  way." 


G   2 


CHAPTER   IV 

ST.    PAUL'S    AND    ITS    PRECINCTS 

"  A  deep,  low,  mighty  tone  swung  through  the  night.  At  first  I  knew 
it  not ;  but  it  was  uttered  twelve  times,  and  at  the  twelfth  colossal  hum 
and  trembling  knell,  I  said,  '  I  lie  in  the  shadow  of  St.  Paul's.'  .  .  .  The 
next  day  I  awoke,  and  saw  the  risen  sun  struggling  through  fog.  Above 
my  head,  above  the  housetops,  co-elevate  almost  with  the  clouds,  I  saw  a 
solemn,  orbed  mass,  dark-blue  and  dim — the  DOME.  While  I  looked, 
my  inner  self  moved  ;  my  spirit  shook  its  always-fettered  wings  half  loose  ; 
I  had  a  sudden  feeling  as  if  I,  who  had  never  yet  truly  lived,  were  at  last 
about  to  taste  life  :  in  that  morning  my  soul  grew  as  fast  as  Jonah's 
gourd. ' ' — Charlotte  Bronte  :  ' '  Villette. " 

"  See  !  how  shadowy, 

Of  some  occult  magician's  rearing, 
Or  swung  in  space  of  heaven's  grace 

Dissolving,  dimly  reappearing, 
Afloat  upon  ethereal  tides 
St.  Paul's  above  the  city  rides." — -John  Davidson. 

ST,  PAUL'S  is  the  central  object  of  the  City.  As  the  typical 
view  of  Rome  must  ever  show,  not  any  "  purple  Caesar's  dome," 
but  the  violet,  all-pervading  cupola  of  St.  Peter's, — so,  also, 
must  the  typical  view  of  London  ever  show  the  faint,  misty, 
grey-blue  dome  of  St.  Paul's.  And  St.  Paul's  is  more  to  us 
than  this.  Even  to  dwellers  in  the  West-End,  inexperienced 
in  City  life,  that  guardian  spirit  of  the  mother-church,  brooding 
silently  over  the  far-off,  dimly-imagined  heart  of  the  City,  is  a 
vital  part — a  necessary  factor — of  London  life.  The  mighty 
smoke-begrimed  cathedral,  the  monument  of  Wren's  genius, 


CH.  iv  THE  BUSTLE  OF  CHEAPSIDE  85 

the  abiding  angel  of  the  City,  has  it  not  a  place  in  the  inmost 
affections  of  every  Englishman  worthy  of  the  name  whether 
near  or  far  ?  The  shrines  of  other  lands,  of  other  nations, 
may  win  his  outspoken  admiration ;  St.  Paul's  has  ever  his 
heart.  For  this,  at  least,  is  his  inheritance,  his  very  own. 


Fighting  Cocks. 

Blue-grey,  veiled  in  mystery  when  viewed  from  a  distance, 
St.  Paul's,  seen  from  its  immediate  surroundings,  has  all  the 
wonder  of  a  dramatic  effect.  Suddenly,  from  the  glare  and 
bustle  of  Cheapside,  from  the  tumult  of  the  crowded  highway, 
a  gigantic,  blackened  mass  rises  in  startling  completeness  im- 
mediately overhead,  towering  with  almost  night-mare  like  rapidity 


86  SIR  CHRISTOPHER  WREN  CH.  iv 

ever  higher  as  we  advance.  Seen  behind  the  tall  white  buildings 
and  shops  of  its  so-called  "  churchyard,"  that  hem  it  in,  St. 
Paul's  makes  an  impression  that  is  indescribably  grand. 
Especially  in  spring,  when  the  first  tender  leaves  of  its  sur- 
rounding plane-trees  interpose  their  young  greenery  in  delicate 
labyrinths  between  the  dark,  massive  walls  of  the  cathedral  and 
the  ever  hurrying  life  outside  them,  should  St.  Paul's  be  visited 
for  the  first  time. 

There  has  from  immemorial  times  been  a  church  here ; 
tradition  even  suggests  a  Roman  temple  on  the  site.  But, 
though  the  "  spirit  "  has  ever  been  constant,  the  "  letter  "  (so  to 
speak),  has  often  changed.  At  any  rate  Wren's  masterpiece  is 
the  third  Christian  church,  dedicated  to  St.  Paul,  erected  here 
since  early  Saxon  times.  Though  Wren's  life-work  was  not 
rewarded,  like  Milton's,  with  "  twenty  pounds  paid  in  instal- 
ments, and  a  near  approach  to  death  on  the  gallows,"  yet  he, 
too,  had  but  scant  justice  in  his  day.  National  benefits,  even  in 
our  own  time,  are  often  but  ill  rewarded.  Thwarted,  wretchedly 
paid,  suspected,  and  finally,  at  great  age,  and  after  forty-five 
years'  hard  service,  deposed  from  the  post  he  had  so  long  and 
so  ably  filled ;  the  "  Nestor  "  of  his  age,  with  a  spirit  worthy  of 
a  more  enlightened  time,  betook  himself  cheerfully  to  his  old 
study  of  philosophy,  and  only  once  in  every  year,  we  are  told, 
indulged  his  master-passion  by  having  himself  carried  to  St. 
Paul's  to  gaze  in  silence  on  his  life-work. 

The  highest  point  of  the  city  would,  naturally,  ,from  very 
early  times  be  chosen  as  the  sanctuary ;  and  St.  Paul's  stands 
grandly  on  the  top  of  Ludgate  Hill,  its  western  portico  almost 
facing  the  steep  street  of  that  name.  That  it  does  not  do  so 
more  exactly,  is  due  to  the  haste  of  the  people  in  rebuilding 
their  houses  after  the  Great  Fire ;  such  haste  occasioning  the 
reconstruction  of  the  city  more  on  the  old  lines,  than  on  those 
of  Wren.  For  the  great  cathedral  took  some  thirty-five  years 
to  complete,  and  streets  grow  again  more  quickly  than  edifices 
destined  for  the  monuments  of  nations.  And,  before  the  new 


St.   Pattl's  from  the  River. 


88  THE  GREAT  FIRE,  AND  BEFORE  IT  CHAP. 

church  could  be  begun,  the  useless  ruins  of  its  predecessor  had 
to  be  removed.  The  Great  Fire  had  calcined  its  stones  and 
undermined  the  safety  of  its  walls.  Such,  indeed  was  the 
devastation  of  this  terrible  holocaust,  that  even  to  this  day,  its 
relics  and  debris  may  be  traced  in  distinct  thin  layers,  at  certain 
distances  under  the  soil,  all  over  the  area  of  the  City.  The 
ruin  can  hardly  be  imagined,  even  from  Pepys's  and  Evelyn's 
vivid  diaries.  Small  wonder  indeed,  that  it  should  be  thought 
by  the  credulous  that  the  end  of  the  world,  the  Last  Judgment, 
had  truly  come.  Some,  later,  held  that  the  "  purification  "  of  the 
old  church  by  fire  had  been  the  one  thing  needed  after  its 
desecration  in  the  Commonwealth  times  to  a  house  of  traffic 
and  merchandize,  even  sometimes  to  a  stable.  The  church 
had  become  a  mere  promenade ;  "  Paul's  Walkers  "  had  been 
the  names  given  to  loungers  in  the  sacred  edifice ;  gallants  using 
it  as  a  place  of  pastime,  beggars  as  a  resting-place,  and  Inigo 
Jones's  beautiful  portico  at  the  west  end  being  all  built  up  with 
squalid  shops.  The  people  were  gradually  awakening  to  a  sense 
of  these  enormities:  had  cleared  out  those  unholy  traffickers; 
— were,  indeed,  in  process  of  restoring  the  church, — when,  in 
1666,  the  fire  came  to  complete  the  purification.  Then,  when 
the  destruction  of  the  city  was  complete,  the  common  people 
with  one  accord,  pronounced  it  to  be  the  work  of  the  "  Popish 
faction,"  and  not  content  with  the  mere  verbal  condemnation, 
caused  this  accusation  of  incendiarism  to  be  graven  deeply  on 
Wren's  commemorating  monument,  a  calumny  only  removed 
after  the  lapse  of  ages. 

Old  St.  Paul's,  the  second  church  of  that  name  on  this  site, 
had  been  built  in  the  Conqueror's  time  ;  it  was  a  large  Gothic 
building,  a  vista  of  noble  arches,  700  feet  long,  with  a  tall, 
spire,  which  was  subsequently  struck  by  lightning  and  removed. 
It  had  a  twelve -bayed  nave  and  a  twelve-bayed  choir,  with  a 
fine  wheel-window  at  the  east  end,  and  with  two  smaller  satellites, 
St.  Faith  and  St.  Gregory, — the  one  inside  its  very  walls, — the 
other  built  on  to  it  outside.  On  being  called  upon  to  rebuild  from 


iv  THE  REBUILDING  89 

the  very  foundations,  Wren  "  resolved  to  reconcile  as  near  as 
possible  the  Gothic  with  a  better  manner  of  architecture  ; "  and, 
without  ever  having  seen  St.  Peter's,  he  produced  what  is  really  an 
adaptation  of  that  central  Renaissance  building  of  Christianity. 
It  is  much  smaller:  St.  Paul's  could  go  easily  inside  St.  Peter's  ; 
yet,  in  the  position  it  occupies,  hemmed  in  by  streets  and 
houses,  it  looks  deceptively  much  bigger.  There  is  a  pleasant 
story  told,  that  in  the  beginning  of  its  building,  Wren  sent  a 
workman  to  fetch  from  'the  surrounding  de'bris,  a  stone  where- 
with to  mark  out  the  centre  of  the  dome  ;  and  this  happening 
to  be  an  old  gravestone,  inscribed  "  Resurgam,"  it  was  held  to 
be  a  happy  omen.  (The  word  "  Resurgam,"  over  the  north 
portico,  with  a  phoenix,  by  Gibber,  commemorates  this  story.) 
Wren  was  very  careful  about  the  strength  of  his  foundations ; 
"  I  build  for  eternity,"  he  said,  with  the  true  confidence  of 
genius. 

More  than  two  centuries  have  now  elapsed  since  the  first 
opening  of  the  new  St.  Paul's  for  service,  and  these  two 
centuries  have  established,  as  time  alone  can  do,  the  fame 
and  the  genius  of  Wren.  Time  here,  as  ever,  has  delivered 
the  final  verdict.  The  great  cathedral  dominates  the  City, 
harmonising,  ennobling,  purifying  the  serried  mass  of  its 
surroundings  ;  it  is  the  coping-stone  of  London's  greatness. 
The  verdict  of  later  times  has  done  justice  to  Wren's  judg- 
ment, and  many  of  his  intentions  regarding  the  details  of  the 
edifice,  thwarted  in  his  lifetime  by  ignorant  contemporaries,  have 
now  been  carried  out.  Thus,  the  organ  has  been  moved  from 
its  former  place  over  the  iron-wrought  screen  between  choir  and 
nave,  (where  it  marred  the  architectural  effect  of  the  edifice),  to 
the  north-east  arch  of  the  choir,  the  position  originally  planned 
for  it  by  Wren  ;  the  tall  outside  railing  of  the  churchyard, 
which,  Wren  said,  dwarfed  the  base  of  the  cathedral,  has  been 
removed  ;  the  mosaics  he  asked  for  now  incrust,  in  shining 
glory,  the  central  dome  ;  and,  if  the  grand  "  baldacchino  "  he 
wanted  has  not  been  placed  in  the  choir,"  there  is,  instead,  a 


90  A  CANOPY  OF  SOOT  CHAP. 

very  sumptuous  modern  reredos.  The  balustrade  that  surmounts 
the  main  building  was  not  intended  by  Wren,  but  insisted  on  by 
the  Commissioners  for  the  building ;  and  its  erection  caused 
Wren  to  say,  not,  perhaps,  without  sly  intention  :  "  I  never 
designed  a  balustrade  ;  but  ladies  think  nothing  well  without 
an  edging" 

This,  however,  was  long  ago  ;  Wren  sleeps  in  peace  in  his 
cathedral  crypt ;  and  there,  on  the  top  of  Ludgate  Hill,  St. 
Paul  stands,  blackening  ever,  year  by  year,  yet  gaining  immea- 
surably through  that  very  blackness.  It  has  been  said,  wittily, 
that  the  great  church  has  a  special  claim  to  its  livery  of  smoke, 
for  the  reason  that  a  great  part  of  the  cost  of  its  building  was 
defrayed  by  a  tax  on  all  coals  brought  into  the  port  of  London  ! 
And  this  canopy  of  solemn  black,  out  of  which  the  dome, 
lantern,  and  golden  ball  emerge  at  intervals,  in  silver  and  gold, 
becomes  it  well. 

"There  cannot,"  wrote  Hawthorne,  "be  anything  else  in  its  way  so 
good  in  the  world  as  just  this  effect  of  St.  Paul's  in  the  very  heart  and 
densest  tumult  of  London.  It  is  much  better  than  staring  white  ;  the 
edifice  would  not  be  nearly  so  grand  without  this  drapery  of  black." 

The  ancient  monuments  of  St.  Paul's  were  nearly  altogether 
destroyed  with  the  old  church;  Wren's  cathedral  was  inaccessible 
to  any  new  monuments  for  some  years,  the  first  admitted  to  it 
being  that  of  John  Howard  the  philanthropist  in  1 790.  This  was 
followed  by  many  others,  chiefly  of  great  warriors,  soldiers  and 
sailors  ;  although  ecclesiastics  also  are  numerous,  and  there  is 
a  goodly  company  of  painters. 

"  If  Westminster  Abbey,"  said  C.  R.  Leslie,  "has  its  Poets'  Corner,  so  has 
St.  Paul's  its  Painters'  Corner.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  statue,  by  Flaxman, 
is  here,  and  Reynolds  himself  lies  buried  here ;  and  Barry,  and  Opie,  and 
Lawrence  are  around  him  ;  and,  above  all,  the  ashes  of  the  great  Van 
JDyck  are  in  the  earth  under  the  cathedral." 

Turner  now  lies  next  to  Reynolds.  Yet,  as  a  rule,  the  great 
commemorated  in  St  Paul's  are  of  a  different  type  to  those  of 
Westminster.  Both  churches  are  the  mausoleums  of  heroes  ; 


iv  MONUMENTAL  EXUBERANCE  91 

St.  Paul's  being,  however,  by  common  consent  the  resting- 
place  of  the  Militant,  Westminster  of  the  Pacific.  The  statue 
of  Dr.  Johnson,  under  the  dome,  opposes  that  of  Howard. 
Though  his  dust  rests  in  Westminster  Abbey,  the  militant  spirit 
of  the  Sage  well  deserves  commemoration  in  St.  Paul's.  His 
representation,  in  the  curious  art  of  the  time,  as  a  half-clothed 
muscular  athlete,  is  appropriately  supplemented  by  that  of 
Howard,  bare-legged,  with  Roman  toga  and  tunic.  The  coin- 
cidence of  Johnson  holding  a  scroll,  and  Howard  a  prison  key, 
has  caused  the  two  to  be  sometimes  mistaken  by  visitors  for 
St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  !  But  not  all  the  monumental  vagaries 
are  as  innocuous  as  these.  Westminster  Abbey  does  not 
alone  suffer  from  the  bad  taste  of  the  Renaissance  ;  a  few  of 
the  monuments  of  St.  Paul's  are  alike  trials  to  the  eyes  as  to 
the  faith.  The  naked  warriors  in  sandals,  receiving  swords 
from,  or  falling  into  the  arms  of,  smart  feminine  "  Victories," — 
lusus  naturae  with  wings  protruding  from  their  shoulders, — 
are,  indeed,  sad  instances  of  the  too  rampant  eighteenth- 
century  exuberance  of  fancy.  Of  the  monuments,  for  in- 
stance, to  Captains  Burgess  and  Westcott,  Allan  Cunningham 
remarks  : 

"The  two  naval  officers  (Westcott  and  Burgess),  are  naked,  which 
destroys  historic  probability  ;  it  cannot  be  a  representation  of  what  happened, 
for  no  British  warriors  go  naked  into  battle,  or  wear  sandals  or  Asiatic 
mantles.  .  .  .  When  churchmen  declared  themselves  satisfied,  the  ladies 
thought  they  might  venture  to  draw  near,  but  the  flutter  of  fans  and  the 
averting  of  faces  was  prodigious.  That  Victory,  a  modest  and  well-draped 
dame,  should  approach  an  undrest  dying  man,  and  crown  him  with  laurel, 
might  be  endured — but,  how  a  well-dressed  young  lady  could  think  of 
presenting  a  sword  to  a  naked  gentleman  went  far  beyond  all  their  notions 
of  propriety." 

Neither  is  the  ugly  group  of  the  Bishop  of  Calcutta,  ogre- 
like  in  size,  apparently  confirming  two  Indian  dwarfs,  at  all 
calculated  to  excite  any  feeling  but  amusement. 

The  great  cathedral  has,  nevertheless,  also  its  monumental 
treasures.  Under  the  third  arch  on  the  north  of  the  nave,  is 


92  TOMBS  OF  LEIGHTON  AND  GORDON  CHAP. 

the  noble  monument  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  by  Alfred 
Stevens  ;  the  aged  Duke  lying,  "  like  a  Scaliger  of  Verona, 
deeply  sleeping  upon  a  lofty  bronze  sarcophagus."  One  thinks 
of  Tennyson's  lines  : 

"  Here  in  streaming  London's  central  roar, 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore." 

And  near  to  him,  in  the  north  aisle  of  the  nave,  under 
the  tattered  banners  of  those  old  regiments  that  fell  in  the 
Crimea,  lies,  on  a  pedestal  of  Greek  cipollino,  the  recumbent 
bronze  effigy  of  that  recent  recruit  to  the  ranks  of  dead  painters, 
Lord  Leighton  of  Stretton.  The  monument,  worthy  of  the 
best  traditions  of  art,  is  by  Brock.  The  beautiful  features  of 
the  dead  President  are  composed  in  a  sublime  peace  ;  he  "  is 
not  dead,  but  sleepeth  "  ;  "  yet  it  is  visibly  a  sleep  that  shall 
know  no  ending,  till  the  last  day  break,  and  the  last  shadow 
flee  away."  The  long  robe  droops  to  the  feet,  the  hands  that 
toiled  unweariedly  for  beauty  and  for  immortal  art,  now  lie 
motionless  on  the  breast.  The  tattered  flags  that  hang  above, 
have,  here,  too,  their  significance, — hanging  over  one,  who  in 
the  many-sidedness  of  his  genius  and  his  interests,  was  in  his 
time  one  of  the  pioneers  of  the  Volunteer  movement.  The 
Leonardo  of  his  age  has  here  a  fitting  memorial. 

Near  to  Lord  Leighton's  fine  tomb  is  that  of  General 
Gordon,  a  bronze  monument  and  effigy  by  Boehm.  He  "who 
at  all  times,  and  everywhere,  gave  his  strength  to  the  weak, 
his  substance  to  the  poor,  his  sympathy  to  the  suffering,  and 
his  heart  to  God  "  is  fitly  remembered  in  death.  When  I  last 
saw  this  monument,  on  the  hero's  breast  lay  a  fresh  bunch  of 
violets,  on  his  either  side  were  the  symbolic  palm -branches, 
and  at  his  feet  a  wreath  of  white  flowers.  Near  by  is  the  im- 
posing bronze  doorway,  the  "gate  of  the  tomb,"  erected  to 
Lord  Melbourne,  Queen  Victoria's  first  Prime  Minister.  Of 


iv  RICHMOND'S  MOSAICS  93 

the  supporting  angels  on  either  side  of  the  plinth,  that  on  the 
left,  especially,  is  very  impressive. 

But  the  bell  calls  to  service,  and  the  rolling  organ-tones 
resound  in  the  blue  dome,  where  Richmond's  mosaics  glitter 
like  diamonds  in  the  stray  gleams  of  sunshine  that  glance 
athwart  the  abyss.  The  mosaics,  like  all  innovations  in  this 
ungrateful  city,  have,  of  course,  run  the  gauntlet  of  abuse,  on 
the  ground  of  smallness  and  ineffectiveness  ;  yet  the  Monreale 
mosaics,  so  admired  at  Palermo,  are  more  or  less  on  the 
same  scale,  and  are,  also,  at  a  considerable  height.  But  it  is 
difficult  for  contemporaries  to  judge  fairly,  and  Time,  no  doubt, 
here  as  elsewhere,  will  kindly  do  the  work  of  discrimination 
for  us. 

In  the  crypt  are  the  half-destroyed  remains  of  monuments 
from  the  older  church,  with  Nelson's  sarcophagus,  Wren's 
simple  tomb,  and  many  others.  But,  outside  St.  Paul's,  the  sun- 
light still  calls  us,  and,  from  the  depths  of  the  dim  recesses  and 
aisles  of  the  great  cathedral,  we  regain  now  the  brilliant  summit 
of  Ludgate  Hill,  brilliant  with  the  noonday  spring  sun.  Now 
the  sounds  of  many-sided  life  invade  the  repose  of  death ;  and 
a  noisy  street-organ,  playing  near  Queen  Anne's  statue,  mingles 
its  note  strangely  with  the  cathedral's  still  pealing  bells.  The 
pigeons,  gay  in  colour,  flit  down  from  their  homes  in  among  the 
blackened  garlands,  Corinthian  capitals,  and  pediments  ;  it  is  a 
strange  and  a  motley  scene.  And,  down  at  the  bottom  of  the 
great  flight  of  steps  that  lead  from  the  western  portico,  the 
Twentieth-century  visitor  will  now  see  a  new  landmark ;  for 
here,  cut  deeply  into  the  pavement,  is  the  record  of  the  latest 
great  ceremonial  function  of  St.  Paul's  :  Queen  Victoria's  visit 
here  on  the  sixtieth  anniversary  of  her  reign.  Here,  on  this  very 
spot,  surrounded  by  Archbishops,  priests,  and  people,  the 
royal  and  aged  lady  sat  in  her  carriage,  paying  homage  to  a 
Heavenly  Throne,  and  receiving,  surely,  greater  homage  than 
was  ever  before  paid  to  an  earthly  one  : — • 


94 


A  NEW  LANDMARK 


"  On  a  lovely  June  morning,  in  the  year  1897,  a  wondrous  pageant  moved 
through  the  enchanted  streets  of  London.  Squadron  by  squadron,  and 
battery  by  battery,  a  superb  cavalry  and  artillery  went  by — the  symbol  of 
the  fighting  strength  of  the  United  Kingdom.  There  went  by  also  troops 
of  mounted  men,  more  carelessly  riding  and  more  lightly  equipped — those 
who  came  from  Canada,  Australia,  New  Zealand,  and  South  Africa  to  give 
a  deeper  meaning  to  the  royal  triumph  ;  and  black-skinned  soldiers  and 
yellow,  and  the  fine  representatives  of  the  Indian  warrior  races.  Generals 
and  statesmen  went  by,  and  a  glittering  cavalcade  of  English  and  Con- 
tinental princes,  and  the  whole  procession  was  a  preparation — for  what  ? 
A  carriage  at  last,  containing  a  quiet-looking  old  lady,  in  dark  and  simple 
attire  ;  and  at  every  point  where  this  carriage  passed  through  seven  miles 
of  London  streets,  in  rich  quarters  and  poor,  a  shock  of  strong  emotion 
shot  through  the  spectators,  on  pavement  and  on  balcony,  at  windows  and 
on  housetops.  They  had  seen  the  person  in  whom  not  only  were  vested 
the  ancient  kingdoms  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  but  who  was  also 
at  once  the  symbol  and  the  actual  bond  of  union  of  the  greatest  and  most 
diversified  of  secular  empires."1 

The  inscription,  cut,  with  Roman  simplicity,  into  the  broad 
paving-stone,  runs  thus : 


HERE  QUEEN  VICTORIA 
RETURNED     THANKS     TO 
ALMIGHTY    GOD    FOR    THE 
SIXTIETH  ANNIVERSARY 
OF  HER  ACCESSION. 

JUNE  22,  A.D.  1897. 


By  how  many  generations, — for  how  many  centuries, — will 
these  words,  I  wonder,  be  read, — the  distant  message  of  Time 
from  the  buried  Victorian  Era  ? 

Beyond,    Queen    Anne's    statue,    in    flowing    curls    and    a 

1  Imperium  et  Libertas,  by  Bernard  Holland. 


iv  THE  PHCENIX-HEART  OF  LONDON  95 

"  sacque  "  robe,  stands,  with  some  dignity,  facing  busy  Ludgate 
Hill,  and  surrounded  by  a  circular,  prison-like  grating.  Down 
towards  noisy  Fleet  Street  her  gaze  wanders ;  down  to  where 
the  rumble  of  many  wheels,  the  sound  of  many  voices,  make 
a  distant  murmur  like  the  stormy  sea,  broken,  at  intervals,  by 
a  shriek  from  that  most  picturesque  of  railways,  the  iron 
"  Bridge  of  Steam,"  that,  ever  and  anon,  emits  a  puff  of  smoke 
and  a  red  spark  into  the  general  "  fermenting- vat,"  the  ingulf- 
ing vortex  of  life  and  energy  below.  For  this  is  the  roaring 
Niagara  of  London,  the  loom  of  Time,  that  never  ceases,  that 
ever  fashions  Order  out  of  Disorder,  ever,  as  by  a  magician's 
wand,  raises  system  out  of  chaos.  Kings,  and  even  thrones, 
may  "  pass  to  rise  no  more ; "  but  the  busy  phoenix-heart  of 
London,  like  the  vestals'  fire,  must  ceaselessly  burn  ;  ever  fed, 
•ever  renewed,  ever  immortal,  ever  young. 

"  Lord  Tennyson  always  delighted  in  the  '  central  roar '  of  London. 
Whenever  he  and  I  (says  his  son)  "  went  to  London,  one  of  the  first 
things  we  did  was  to  walk  to  the  Strand  and  Fleet  Street.  '  Instead  of  the 
stuccoed  houses  in  the  West  End,  this  is  the  place  where  I  should  like  to 
live,'  he  would  say.  He  was  also  fond  of  looking  at  London  from  the 
bridges  over  the  Thames,  and  of  going  into  St.  Paul's,  and  into  the  Abbey. 
One  day  in  1842  Fitzgerald  records  a  visit  to  St.  Paul's  with  him  when  he 
said,  '  Merely  as  an  enclosed  space  in  a  huge  city  this  is  very  fine,'  and 
when  they  got  out  into  the  open,  in  the  midst  of  the  *  central  roar,'  '  This 
is  the  mind  ;  that  is  a  mood  of  it.' " — (Tennysorfs  Life,  i.  183.) 

Round  about  St.  Paul's  are  many  and  labyrinthine  lanes  and 
alleys,  with  no  less  labyrinthine  associations.  Some  of  these 
alleys  are,  like  Paternoster  Row,  or  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  by 
day  crowded  aortas  of  human  traffic  ;  others,  by  strange  con- 
trast, are  silent  and  still  as  the  grave.  London  is,  as  we  know, 
full  of  unexpected  nooks  of  quiet ;  and  none,  in  their  way, 
are  more  sudden  and  startling  than  those  about  St.  Paul's. 
From  busy  Paternoster  Row,  with  its  array  of  religious  book- 
shops of  all  denominations, — so  crowded,  and  yet  so  narrow, 
that  a  man  on  one  of  its  sidewalks  can,  by  stretching,  almost 
grasp  the  hand  of  a  man  on  the  other  (or  could  perhaps  do  so, 


St.  Michael's,  Paternoster  Royal. 


CH.  iv         PATERNOSTER  ROW,  AND  THE  BRONTES  97 

were  it  not  so  constantly  blocked  by  multifarious  traffic), — from 
noisy  Paternoster  Row  to  the  calm  of  "  Amen  Court," — the 
quadrangle  of  canons'  residences  opening  out  of  it, — what  a 
change  !  Here,  in  Amen  Court,  entered  by  a  pleasant,  sober 
red-brick  gateway,  Canon  Liddon's  last  days  were  spent ;  here 
are  quiet,  old-fashioned  houses  looking,  in  summer,  on  to 
green  plotsTand  ^refreshing  shrubs.  All  this  seclusion,  and  yet 
the  very  heart  of  London  !  Warwick  Square,  close  by,  is  a 
haven  of  another  sort ;  a  stony  square  set  round  with  tall 
offices  ^ 'roomy  houses,  perhaps  formerly  residential  mansions, 
with' here  and  there  an  attractively  carved  antique  porch,  or 
other  relic  of  the  past.  It  was  under  a  house  in  this  square, 
ir/f'ebuilding,  that  various  Roman  remains  were  recently  found. 
In  Paternoster  Row,  at  the  corner  of  "  Chapter-house  Court," 
was,  in  old  days,  the  "  Chapter  "  Coffee  House,  where  the  old 
medical  club  of  the  "  Wittenagemot "  was  held,  and  where, 
later,  Charlotte  and  Anne  Bronte  came  on  their  first  visit  to 
London,  after  the  successful  publication  of  Jane  Eyre,  to  make 
their  real  personalities  known  to  their  publishers,  in  1848. 
Two  little  lonely,  strangely-dressed  women  they  must  have 
seemed  ! — their  only  friend  the  elderly  waiter  of  the  establish- 
ment, who  no  doubt,  took  an  interest  in  such  unusual  visitors. 
Yet,  what  excitement  must  they  not  have  felt  in  seeing,  for  the 
first  time,  all  that  they  had  read  and  dreamed  of  for  years  ! 
One  is  reminded  of  the  story  of  their  brother  Branwell,  that 
unhappy  child  of  genius  and  temptation,  who,  at  lonely 
Haworth  Parsonage,  knew  all  "  the  map  of  London  by  heart " 
without  ever  having  been  there,  and  who  could  direct  any 
chance  stranger  who  happened,  going  Londonwards,  to  put  up 
at  the  remote  Yorkshire  inn. 

"  Panyer  Alley,"  the  last  entry  leading  into  Newgate  Street, 
commemorates  the  bakers'  basket- makers,  or  "  Panyers,''  of 
the  fourteenth  century.  Here,  built  into  the  wall  of  a  modern 
house  and  nearly  obliterated,  was,  till  quite  recently,  a  relief  of 
a  boy  sitting  on  a  "  panyer,"  with  this  curious  inscription.: 

n 


98  "  PAUL'S  CROSS "  CHAP. 

"  When  Ye  have  sought 
The  Citty  Round 
Yet  still  This  is 
The  Highest  Ground 
Avgvst  the  27 
1688. 

Close  by  used  to  be  the  tavern  called  "  Dolly's  Chop-House," 
removed  in  1883.  The  views  obtained  of  the  Cathedral,  down 
some  of  these  narrow  byways,  are  very  striking  : 

"  There  is  a  passage  leading  from  Paternoster  Row  to  St.  Paul's  Church- 
yard. It  is  a  slit,  through  which  the  Cathedral  is  seen  more  grandly  than 
from  any  other  point  I  can  call  to  mind.  It  would  make  a  fine  dreamy 
picture,  as  we  saw  it  one  moonlight  night,  with  some  belated  creatures 
resting  against  the  walls  in  the  foreground — mere  spots  set  against  the  base 
of  Wren's  mighty  work,  that,  through  the  narrow  opening,  seemed  to  have 
its  cross  set  against  the  sky." 

The  famous  open-air  pulpit  called  "  Paul's  "  or  "  Powle's  " 
Cross — noted  for  so  many  eloquent  and  impassioned 
harangues  from  mediaeval  divines, — for  the  proclamation  '  of 
kings, — for  the  denunciation  of  traitors, — used  to  stand  at  the 
north-east  corner  of  the  churchyard.  It  was  a  canopied  cross, 
raised  on  stone  steps  ;  a  big  elm  marked  its  site  until  some 
fifty  years  back.  Open-air  services,  discontinued  after  the 
demolition  of  "  Paul's  Cross,"  were  attempted  to  be  revived  by 
Wesley  and  Whitefield  ;  and,  even  in  our  own  day,  an  open-air 
pulpit  is  used,  in  summer,  at  Trinity  Church,  Marylebone  Road, 
and  largely  attended,  as  any  one  who  passes  by  Portland  Road 
Station  on  Sunday  afternoon  may  see  for  himself.  Public 
confession  for  crime  was  also  made  at  "Paul's  Cross,"  and 
Jane  Shore  did  penance  here,  as  described  by  Sir  Thomas 
More.  East  of  St.  Paul's,  where  now  a  line  of  tall  warehouses 
rises,  was,  until  1884,  St.  Paul's  School,  founded  in  1509  by 
Dean  Colet,  friend  of  Erasmus,  and  now  removed  to  new 
red  brick  buildings  at  Hammersmith  ;  a  tablet  on  one  of  the 
warehouses  marks  its  site.  The  old  fashioned  Deanery  of 
St.  Paul's,— a  homely  building,  not  unlike  a  quiet  country 


iv  WREN'S  MONUMENT  99 

rectory,  with  red  tiled  sloping  roofs,  and  nearly  hidden  behind 
high  walls, — is  in  Dean's  Court,  just  south  of  the  cathedral. 
Close  by  it  is  St.  Paul's  Choristers'  School,  built  in  1874  by 
Dean  Church. 

Returning  to  the  portico  of  the  north  transept,  it  is  pleasant 
to  sit  awhile  in  St  Paul's  Churchyard,  where  the  doves  coo  and 
the  pigeons  flutter.  Or  if  you  stand  by  the  iron  gate  of  the 
enclosure,  and  raise  your  eyes  to  the  blackened  walls  and 
columns,  you  will  see,  above  the  north  porch,  an  inscription 
on  a  tablet,  perpetuating  the  memory  of  the  great  builder,  "  in 
four  words  which  comprehend  his  merit  and  his  fame  :  "  "  Si 
monumentum  requiris,  circumspice."  (If  thou  seekest  his 
monument,  look  around.)  "The  visitor,"  says  Leigh  Hunt, 
"does  look  around,  and  the  whole  interior  of  the  Cathedral 
....  seems  like  a  magnificent  vault  over  his  single  body." 
And,  gazing,  in  this  sense,  on  the  great  man's  tomb,  the 
burning  words  of  Ecclesiasticus  suggest  themselves,  read  by 
the  Bishop  of  Stepney  at  the  unveiling  of  Lord  Leighton's 
monument : 

"  Let  us  now  praise  famous  men,  and  our  fathers  that  begat  us.  The 
Lord  hath  wrought  great  glory  by  them  through  his  great  power  from  the 
beginning.  .  .  .  Leaders  of  the  people  by  their  counsels,  and  by  their 
knowledge  of  learning  meet  for  the  people,  wise  and  eloquent  in  their 
instructions.  .  .  .  All  these  were  honoured  in  their  generations,  and  were 
the  glory  of  their  times.  There  be  of  them,  that  have  left  a  name  behind 
them,  that  their  praises  might  be  reported.  And  some  there  be,  which 
have  no  memorial  ....  but  ....  their  glory  shall  not  be  blotted  out. 
Their  bodies  are  buried  in  peace ;  but  their  name  liveth  for  evermore." 


H    2 


CHAPTER   V 

THE    TOWER 

Prince  Edward :  "  Did  Julius  Caesar  build  that  place,  my  lord?" 
Buckingham  :  "  He  did,  my  gracious  lord,  begin  that  place  ; 

Which,  since,  succeeding  ages  have  re-edified.  ..." 
Richard  of  York  :  "  What,  will  you  go  unto  the  Tower,  my  lord  ?  .  .  .  . 

....   I  shall  not  sleep  in  quiet  at  the  Tower." 
Gloucester:  "Why,  what  should  you  fear?" 
Richard  of  York  :   ' '  Marry,  my  uncle  Clarence'  angry  ghost : 

My  grandam  told  me  he  was  murder'd  there." 

— King  Richard  III,  Act  in,  Scene  I. 

"  Death  is  here  associated,  not,  as  in  Westminster  Abbey  and  Saint 
Paul's,  with  genius  and  virtue,  with  public  veneration  and  imperishable 
renown  ;  not  with  everything  that  is  most  endearing  in  social  and  domestic 
charities ;  but  with  whatever  is  darkest  in  human  nature  and  in  human 
destiny,  with  the  savage  triumph  of  implacable  enemies,  with  the  incon- 
stancy, the  ingratitude,  the  cowardice  of  friends,  with  all  the  miseries  of 
fallen  greatness  and  of  blighted  fame." — Macaulay  :  "History  of  England.'1'' 

"  Place  of  doom, 
Of  execution  too,  and  tomb." — Scott. 

WHAT  Londoner  has  not,  from  earliest  childhood,  been 
acquainted  with  the  Tower  ?  In  the  Christmas  holidays  it 
presented,  as  a  "  treat,"  rival  attractions  with  Madame  Tussaud's 
and  the  "  Zoo."  When  not  presented  under  the  too-inform- 
ing care  of  over-zealous  pastors  and  masters, — when  not  im- 
bibed as  too  flagrant  material  for  that  fly-in-the-ointment,  a 
holiday  task,— when  not  made,  in  a  word,  too  suggestive  of  the 


CH.  v  THE  "  PRETTY  SOLDIERS  "  xoi 

unpleasant,  but  necessary  paths  of  learning, — it  offered  great 
fascinations  to  the  youthful  mind.  The  warders,  in  their 
picturesque  "  Beefeater  "  dress,  were  ever  an  unfailing  joy  ;  the 
surprise,  indeed,  with  which  I  first  saw  one  of  these  mighty 
beings  descend  from  his  pedestal,  and  deign  to  hold  simple 
conversation  with  ordinary  mortals,  is  still  fresh  in  my  memory. 
Then,  the  towers  and  dark  passages,  up  which  one  could  run 
and  clatter  joyfully,  with  all  the  entrancing  and  horrid  possi- 
bility of  meeting  somebody's  headless  ghost ;  the  attractive 
thumbscrew,  model  of  the  rack,  and  headsman's  mask,  all 
so  appealing  to  the  innocent  brutality  of  childhood  ;  the  very 
wooden  and  highly  coloured  "  Queen  Elizabeth  ",  riding  in  full 
dress,  with  a  page,  to  Tilbury  Fort ;  the  stiff  effigies  of  the 
mail-clad  soldiers,  in  rows  inside  the  White  Tower, — the  live 
soldiers  drilling  in  the  sun-lit  square  outside  ; — the  inspiring 
music  of  the  band,  the  roll  of  the  drum,  the  flocks  of  wheeling 
pigeons ;  how  charming  it  all  was  !  My  first  knowledge  of  Tower 
history  was  derived  from  a  Cockney  nursemaid,  who  had,  I 
suspect,  strong  affinities  with  the  before-mentioned  "  pretty 
soldiers  "  (are  not  "  pretty  soldiers,"  by-the-way,  usually  the  first 
words  that  London  children  learn  to  lisp  ?).  Tragedies,  I 
knew,  were  connected  with  that  sun-lit  square.  Two  beautiful 
ladies,  I  was  told,  had  had  their  heads  cut  off  here  by  their  cruel 
husband,  a  gentleman  called  "  'Enery  the  Eighth,"  (I  naturally 
thought  of  this  "  'Enery  "  as  Bluebeard) ;  "  because  they  was 
that  skittish  like,  and  fond  of  singin'  and  dancin'  on  Sundays, 
which  'e  for  one  never  could  abear  ;  and  so  'e  'ad  their  'eds  orf, 
and  grass  adn't  never  grown  on  the  place  sence."  Which  fact  I 
identified  as  true,  at  least  for  the  time  being ;  though  how  far 
grass  can  grow  through  paving-stones,  is  always  matter  for 
speculation.  And  Mary-Anne  further  went  on  to  relate  how 
she  "  'ad  a  friend  who  knew  a  young  woman  who  was  a 
'ousekeeper  somewhere  here,  who  'ad  seen  'orrible  things  in  the 
way  of  ghostisses,  and  'ad  the  screamin'  'sterrics  somethin'  awful  ; 
—  quite  reg'ler,  too, — after  it  !  " 


102        "TO  POINT  A  MORAL  AND  ADORN  A  TALE"      CHAP. 


A  Beefeater. 

Yet  I  myself  think  that  it  is  a  pity  to  treat  the  classic  Tower 
on  such  familiar  terms  !  It  should  be  approached  with  respect, 
and  not  merely  introduced  as  a  juvenile  appendix  to  Madame 


v  THE  ROMAN  TRADITION  103 

Tussaud's  !  The  charm  of  the  old  fortress,  as  of  its  immediate 
surroundings,  is,  in  any  case,  only  realised  in  maturer  years. 
This  has  always  been  the  riverside  stronghold  of  London. 
Tradition,  and  poetic  license,  name,  indeed,  Julius  Caesar  as  its 
founder ;  however  that  may  be,  the  Romans  probably  had  a 
fort  here,  as  Saxon  Alfred  after  them.  The  White  Tower,  or 
Keep,  raised  by  William  the  Conqueror,  is  built  upon  a  Roman 
bastion ;  and  Roman  relics  have  been  dug  up  at  intervals  in  its 
near  precincts.  Nevertheless,  the  Roman  tradition  here  is  but 
visionary ;  the  interest  of  the  Tower  is  bound  up  with  the 
evolution  of  the  English  race.  It  is  the  most  interesting 
mediaeval  monument  that  we  possess,  a  still  vivid  piece  of 
English  history ;  a  stranded  islet  of  Time,  left  forgotten  by  the 
raging  tide  of  surrounding  London. 

In  the  Tower  precincts, — if  you  are  careful  not  to  choose  a 
Monday  or  Saturday,  which  are  free  days,  for  your  visit — you 
may  enjoy  yourself  in  your  own  way  and  to  your  heart's  con- 
tent. The  warders, — old  soldiers, — are  pleasant  and  unobtrusive 
people,  with  manners  of  really  wonderful  urbanity,  considering' 
the  very  mixed,. and  generally  unwashed,  character,  of  a  large 
portion  of  their  public.  The  Tower,  apart  from  the  charm  of 
its  lurid  and  romantic  history,  is  a  picturesque  place.  In 
winter,  it  is  somewhat  exposed  to  the  elements,  and  in  summer, 
owing  to  its  proximity  to  the  Temple  of  the  Fisheries,  it  is, 
perhaps  a  trifle  odoriferous ;  but  on  a  fine  spring  or  autumn 
morning, — a  spring  morning  uncursed  by  east  wind,  an  autumn 
morning  undimmed  by  river-mist, — you  will  realise  all  the  beauty, 
as  well  as  the  interest,  of  the  place.  Part  of  its  attraction  lies 
in  the  fact  that  it  is  neither  a  ruin  nor  a  fossil ;  it  is  a  living 
place  still,  and  serves  for  use  as  well  as  for  show.  In  old 
days  by  turn  palace,  state  prison,  inquisition,  and  "oub- 
liette," it  is  now  a  barrack  and  government  arsenal.  Its 
threatening  ring  of  walled  towers,  witnesses  of  so  many  scenes 
of  blood  and  cruelty,  re-echo  now  to  the  merry  voices  of  little 
School-Board  boys,  playing  foot-ball  in  the  drained  and  levelled 


104  THE  TOWER  VICTIMS  CHAP. 

moat  below ;  its  paved  courts  and  gravelled  enclosures  still  ring 
to  the  tramp  of  soldiers'  feet,  but  soldiers  of  a  newer  and  a  more 
humane  era.  In  days  when  men  suffered  cheerfully  for  faith's 
sake,  when  queens  and  princes  passed  naturally  to  the  throne 
through  the  blood  of  their  nearest  relations,  when  self-denial, 
conscience,  and  uprightness  of  life  were  reckoned  as  crimes, 
the  Tower  was  the  place  of  doom  and  death.  Here,  not  only 
political  plotters  and  state  prisoners,  guilty  of  "  high  treason," 
were  punished,  but  also  children,  young  men  and  maidens, 
playthings  of  an  unkind  fate,  were  condemned,  unheard,  to  an 
early  death.  Here,  also,  at  the  Restoration,  perished,  bravely 
as  they  had  lived,  many  of  the  sturdy  and  loyal  followers  of  a 
bad  cause,  who  might  say,  with  Macaulay's  typical  "  Jacobite  "  : 

"  To  my  true  king  I  offered,  free  from  stain, 
Courage  and  faith  ;  vain  faith,  and  courage  vain." 

Later,  the  martyr  annals  of  the  Tower  were  in  a  measure 
defiled  by  the  introduction  of  real  and  noteworthy  criminals, 
and  the  imprisonment  within  its  walls  of  such  wretches  as  the 
Gunpowder  Plot  conspirators,  the  imfamous  murderers  of  Sir 
Thomas  Overbury,  and  the  notorious  Judge  Jeffreys.  But  the 
desecration  of  these  is  past ;  the  Tower  has  long  ceased  to  be 
a  State  Prison,  and  the  halo  of  its  earlier  victims  still  is 
paramount  there.  The  very  names  of  certain  localities 
recall  their  tragedies :  "  Bloody  Tower,"  commemorating  the 
murder  of  the  young  princes,  sons  of  Edward  IV.,  whose 
bones  were  found  here  under  a  staircase;  Traitor's  Gate, — the 
gate  of  the  doomed, — the  grim  disused  archway,  with  a  port- 
cullis, looking  towards,  and  in  ancient  times  opening  on  to, 
the  river. 

The  Tower  is  full  of  lovely  "  bits  "  for  the  sketcher.  The 
succession  of  fine  old  gates  that  span  the  entrance-road,  and 
the  ring  of  encircling  towers  called  the  "  Inner  Ward,"  though 
necessarily  restored  in  places,  have  still  a  fine  air  of  antiquity  ; 
which  air  of  antiquity  the  massive  walls,  narrow  window-slits,  and 


v  ST.   PETER-IN-THE-CHAINS  105 

the  close-growing  mantle  of  ivy  that,  in  places,  adds  a  welcome 
note  of  greenery,  do  much  to  maintain.  The  effect,  at  any 
rate,  is  complete.  In  the  Tower  precincts  you  seem  to  be 
really  in  mediaeval  London.  Just  so,  you  imagine,  in  all 
essentials,  only  still  grassy  and  not  quite  so  shut  in  by  houses, 
must  "  Tower  Green "  have  looked  on  that  terrible  day  so 
dramatically  described  by  Froude : 

"A  little  before  noon,  on  the  I9th  of  May,  Anne  Boleyn,  Queen  of 
England,  was  led  down  to  the  green  where  the  young  grass  and  the  white 
daisies  of  summer  were  freshly  bursting  in  the  sunshine.  A  little  cannon 
stood  loaded  on  the  battlements,  the  motionless  cannoneer  was  ready  with 
smoking  linstock  at  his  side,  and  when  the  crawling  hand  upon  the  dial 
of  the  great  Tower  clock  touched  the  midday  hour,  that  cannon  would  tell 
to  London  that  all  was  over." 

On  this  same  spot,  so  fatal  to  youth  and  beauty,  two  other 
young  women,—  mere  girls,  indeed, — died  ;  poor  silly  Katherine 
Howard,  and,  later,  Lady  Jane  Grey,  a  child  of  eighteen, — the 
"  queen  of  nine  days,"  a  victim  of  others'  offences, — who  "  went 
to  her  death  without  fear  or  pain."  Neither  age  nor  youth  were, 
indeed,  spared  in  those  cruel  days ;  for  the  grey  hairs  of  the 
aged  Countess  of  Salisbury,  last  of  the  Plantagenets,  were  here 
also  brought  to  the  same  block.  This  was  the  private 
execution  spot,  reserved  for  special  victims  and  near  relations, 
in  contrast  to  the  public  one  on  Great  Tower  Hill  outside  ;  the 
exact  place  is  enclosed,  and  marked  by  a  square  patch  of 
darker  stone.  In  the  little  adjoining  chapel  of  St.  Peter  ad 
Vincula — the  Prisoners'  Chapel, — aptly  dedicated  to  St.  Peter-in 
the-Chains, — were  buried  all  these  poor  dishonoured  bodies ; 
Queen  Anne  Boleyn's,  so  short  a  time  ago  so  loved,  so 
adulated,  thrown  carelessly  into  an  old  arrow-chest,  and  flung 
beneath  the  altar.  This  chapel, — which  is,  by  the  way,  a  royal 
chapel,  and  therefore  under  no  bishop's  jurisdiction,— is  very 
much  restored,  but  it  has  a  few  good  monuments ;  and  its  list 
of  victims,  numbered  on  a  brass  tablet  inside  the  door,  is 
sufficiently  affecting  :  "  In  truth,"  says  Macaulay  : 


io6  MODERN  DWELLERS  IN  THE  TOWER  CHAP. 

"  there  is  no  sadder  spot  on  earth  than  this  little  cemetery.  Hither  have 
been  carried  through  successive  ages,  by  the  rude  hands  of  gaolers,  without 
one  mourner  following,  the  bleeding  relics  of  men  who  had  been  the 
captains  of  armies,  the  leaders  of  parties,  the  oracles  of  senates,  and  the 
ornaments  of  courts. 

"  No,  I  can't  say  I've  ever  seen  any  ghosts,"  said  the  affable 
Warder  who  showed  me  the  chapel :  "  though  an  American 
family  lately,  they  were  so  anxious  to  see  Queen  Anne  Boleyn's 
ghost,  that  they  went  and  sat  opposite  the  execution-spot,  at  all 
hours,  day-and-night ;  but  they  must  have  got  disappointed,  for 
I  never  heard  that  anything  came  of  it.  .  .  Being  from 
America,"  he  added  thoughtfully,  "  I  suppose  they  felt  they'd 
like  to  see  all  there  was  to  be  seen.  .  .  .  No,  ghosts  don't 
trouble  us  much ;  we  all  live  in  the  Towers  and  round  about, 
and  the  worst  you  can  say  of  our  lodgin's  is  that  they're  a  bit 
draughty-like,  in  winter  and  spring,  having  them  slits  of  winders 
all  round.  And  then  they  don't  allow  you  to  paper  the  walls, 
or  stick  up  a  picture  nail,  or  anything  to  make  the  place  look 
a  bit  homely  !  One  does  get  a  bit  tired,  too,"  he  confessed, 
"  of  them  dark  stone  walls,  and  even  of  prisoners'  inscriptions  ; 
but  there  it  is,  you  mayn't  so  much  as  touch  'em,  or  even 
cover  'em  up.  .  .  .  However,"  he  continued  magnanimously, 
"  I  own  that  we're  lucky  to  live  in  the  days  we  do ;  our  'eds  is 
our  own,  at  any  rate  !  " 

Between  Tower  Green  and  the  outer  moat,  on  the  western  side 
of  the  gravelled  square,  are  the  old-fashioned  and  comfortable- 
looking  dwelling  houses  of  the  Tower  officials  ;  the  residences 
of  the  Governor,  the  doctor,  the  Chaplain,  &c  ;  houses  mainly 
of  darkened-  brick, — like  the  citadel  itself, — fitted  in  between  the 
"  Beauchamp "  and  the  "Bell  "  towers.  The  greater  part  of 
the  fortress  is,  as  we  have  seen,  utilised  as  arsenal,  barracks,  or 
private  dwellings ;  and  thus,  of  its  many  towers,  the  "  White 
Tower,"  (the  "  Keep "  of  the  ancient  castle),  and  the 
"  Beauchamp  Tower,"  are  the  only  ones  now  viewed  by  the 
general  public ;  though  other  antiquities  and  places  worthy  of 


v  THE  BEAUCHAMP  TOWER  107 

a  visit  may,  on  application  to  the  Governor,  be  shown  to  those 
"really  interested."  The  Beauchamp  Tower,  though  "re- 
stored "  in  1854  (when  all  its  inscriptions  were  placed  together 
in  one  room),  is  still  most  interesting.  Certainly,  the  draughts, 
on  a  windy  day,  of  that  room,  go  far  to  suggest  the  justice  of 
my  friend  the  warder's  complaint.  And  the  poor  prisoners 
of  old  days  did  not  know  the  modern  comfort  of  "  slow-com- 
bustion "  stoves  !  Poor  creatures  !  torn  by  the  rack  and  tor- 
ture, crushed  by  long,  hopeless  imprisonment,  with  no  friend  to 
turn  to  in  their  need,  they  have  left  us,  deeply  cut  into  the 
prison  walls,  their  most  pathetic  complaint.  Philosophy,  on 
the  whole,  seems  here  to  have  been  of  the  most  availing 
comfort.  Like  Socrates,  the  wretched  victims  tried  hard  to  be 
stoical.  "  The  most  unhappie  man  in  the  world,"  runs  one 
inscription,  "  is  he  that  is  not  pacient  in  adversitie.  "  Then,  in 
old  Norman-French  :  "  Tout  vient  apoient,  quy  peult  attendre." 
"  A  passage  perillus  maketh  a  port  pleasant."  It  was  here,  in 
the  Beauchamp  Tower,  that  the  five  Dudley  brothers,  sons  of 
the  Duke  of  Northumberland,  were  imprisoned  for  their  share 
in  the  Lady  Jane  Grey  rebellion  ;  here  are  their  pictured 
emblems  and  hieroglyphics ;  also  the  word  "  Jane,"  supposed 
to  have  been  cut  by  her  husband,  Lord  Guildford.  To  the 
longer  victims  of  the  Tower,  time  must  have  passed  hardly. 
Was  it  agony  of  mind  that  guided  the  stroke,  or  did  they  find 
it  some  solace  in  their  anguish  ?  Poets,  philosophers,  men  of 
science,  all  the  best  and  noblest  in  the  land ;  hours  of  solace 
after  torture,  no  doubt,  were  theirs,  given  by  that  good  Angel 

who, 

"  Brought  the  wise  and  great  of  ancient  days 
To  cheer  the  cell  where  Raleigh  pined  alone." 

Had  they  books,  journals,  writing  materials  ?  Probably  but 
rarely.  There  was  Raleigh,  who  spent  such  a  large  part  of  a 
chequered  life  in  prison  here,  dying  here  too  at  last,  and  writing 
his  "  History  "  with  admirable  stoicism,  in  the  face  of  death. 
But  Lady  Jane  Grey,  imprisoned  in  the  "  Brick  Tower,"  had, 


io8  THE  WHITE  TOWER  CHAP. 

we  know,  to  inscribe  her  last  message  to  her  sister  Katherine, 
on  the  blank  leaves  of  her  Greek  Testament.  What  vivid, 
what  painful  interest  would  attach  to  a  "  Tower "  diary,  such 
as  Pepys's,  in  cipher,  could  one  have  been  written  by  any  of 
these  prisoners  ! 

The  wonderful  collection  of  historic  armour  in  the  imposing 
"  White  Tower  "  is,  even  to  those  who  are  not  connoisseurs  on 
the  subject,  of  great  interest  and  beauty.  It  is  true  that  there  are 
a  great  many  very  narrow  and  steep  stone  stairs  to  be  climbed  ; 
but  in  the  end  you  are  duly  rewarded  for  your  trouble.  The 
ancient  chapel  of  St.  John,  at  the  top  of  the  winding  stairway, 
is  most  strikingly  picturesque,  and  especially  so  on  a  sunny 
day,  when  the  light  plays  among  the  bare  stone  columns.  This 
"  most  perfect  Norman  chapel  in  England  "  is  striking  in  its 
unadorned  severity  of  style  ;  and  the  stilted  horseshoe  arches 
of  its  apse  are  somewhat  like  those  of  St.  Bartholomew  the 
Great,  at  Smithfield.  The  chapel  dates  from  the  year  1078, 
and  has  been  the  scene  of  many  royal  pageants  and  lyings-in- 
state. The  Banqueting  Hall  adjoins  it ;  here  are  to  be  seen, 
among  other  curiosities,  models  of  the  rack  and  thumbscrew, 
and  the  block  used  for  the  execution  of  old  Lord  Lovat,  with 
Lords  Balmerino  and  Kilmarnock — the  last  Royalists  executed 
here — in  1745.  The  hall  contains  also  much  armour  and 
many  weapons.  Above  is  the  "Council  Chamber,"  where 
King  Richard  II.  abdicated  his  throne  in  favour  of  his  cousin 
Henry  Bolingbroke. 

"  I  think  men  must  really  have  got  bigger  since  these  old 
days,"  remarked  a  burly  policeman,  to  whom. I  was  communi- 
cating my  impressions :  "  Now,  you  wouldn't  think  it,  but 
there's  only  two  suits  of  armour  in  the  whole  place  that  I  could 
even  manage  to  get  on  me,  that's  old  Henry  VII I's,  and  his 
brother-in-law  what's  beside  'im,  Charles  Brandon,  Dook  o' 
Suffolk — you  see  'em  ?  over  there,  in  the  middle.  Not  but 
what  they  must  have  been  strong  too,  of  their  size,  to  bear 
all  that  there  weight  of  steel  on  'em.  I'd  be  sorry  to  do  it 


v  THE  REGALIA  109 

myself,  I  know  that.  It's  a  wonder  they  didn't  faint,  and 
their  poor  horses,  too  !  " 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  of  armour  in  the  collection 
is  that  made  for  Henry  VIII.  on  his  marriage  with  Katharine 
of  Arragon.  It  is  of  German  manufacture,  with  deep  and 
heavy  skirts,  on  the  edge  of  which  is  a  pierced  border,  with  the 
initials  "  H  "  and  "  K  "  entwined  in  a  true-love  knot.  This 
suit  of  armour  is,  further,  adorned  with  elaborate  designs, 
probably  from  Hans  Burgmair  or  one  of  his  school,  from  the 
lives  of  St.  George  and  St.  Barbara,  patron  saints  of  England 
and  of  armourers.  In  Stuart  times  the  suits  of  mail,  and 
armour  generally,  became  less  heavy  ;  and  vizors  and  breast- 
plates are  often  of  open-work  ;  most  picturesque  of  all,  per- 
haps, is  the  dress  of  the  link- bearers  of  Charles  I.'s  time.  The 
armour,  and  arms  generally,  are  kept  in  a  fine  state  of  polish, 
wonderful  to  see  in  a  land  of  fog  and  river  mist.  "The 
soldiers,  you  see,  they  have  a  turn  at  the  spears  and  things 
when  they  want  a  job  ;  but,  of  course,  the  armour,  and  such  as 
that,  is  left  to  two  or  three  people's  special  business." 

There  is  a  certain  barbaric  splendour  about  the  State 
vessels  and  Coronation  jewels,  commonly  called  the  "  Regalia," 
kept  in  the  "  Record  "  or  "  Wakefield  "  Tower.  These,  like 
the  menagerie  formerly  exhibited  here  are  separated  (and  quite 
as  necessarily)  from  the  outer  world  by  strong  railings.  This 
shining  treasure  of  gold-plate  and  precious  stones  recalls  the 
story  of  Colonel  Blood's  famous  and  nearly  successful  attempt 
at  robbery,  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.,  for  which  he  was,  some- 
what inconsistently,  rewarded  by  a  landed  estate  and  "  cash 
down."  History  is  a  sad  series  of  injustices,  and  Colonel 
Blood's  crime  was,  for  reasons  of  state  possibly,  suppressed. 
Certain  it  is  that  the  kings  of  England  have  not  always  been 
above  stealing,  or,  at  any  rate,  pledging  their  own  treasure. 

If  the  Tower  looks  a  grim  enough  fortress  now,  it  must  have 
seemed  grimmer  still  in  ancient  times,  when  every  murder  and 
cruelty — every  crime  that  blackens  the  page  of  English  history 


i io  THE  "TRAITOR'S  GATE"  CHAP. 

—took  place  within  its  gloomy  walls.  Surely,  in  old  days,  the 
bloody  reputation  of  the  Tower  may  well  have  made  those 
shrink  and  tremble  who  passed  under  its  doomed  gateways  ! 
By  the  "  Traitor's  Gate,"  that  waterway  now  disused,  but  which 
then  opened  directly  on  to  the  river  highway,  was  brought  that 
living  freight  of  illustrious  persons  destined  here  to  suffer  and 

to  die  : 

' '  That  gate  misnamed,  through  which  before 
Went  Sidney,  Russell,  Raleigh,  Cranmer,  More." 

So  far,  indeed,  from  being  a  "  traitor's  "  way,  all  the  valour 
and  chivalry  of  mediaeval  England  seem,  at  one  time  and  another, 
to  have  passed  that  dreadful  gate.  Here,  the  "Lieutenant" 
or  "  Constable  "  of  the  Tower,  "  receipted  "  the  arrival  of  the  yet 
living  bodies  of  men  and  women,  soon  to  be  bleeding  and  dis- 
membered corpses.  .  .  .  Such  a  "receipt,"  given  for  the 
person  of  the  condemned  Duke  of  Monmouth,  "the  people's 
darling,"  is  still  extant.  The  "  Traitor's  Gate  "  had,  moreover, 
an  added  horror  ;  for  in  its  walls  are  certain  loopholes,  through 
which  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower  could  watch,  unseen,  the 
prisoner's  arrival  from  his  trial  at  the  House  of  Lord's,  and 
could  ascertain,  as  he  ascended  the  stone  steps,  whether  the 
fatal  Axe  of  Office,  carried  in  front  of  him,  were  reversed 
or  otherwise— reversal  signifying  death.  Here,  when  Sir 
Thomas  More  was  being  led  back  to  prison  with  the  reversed  axe 
carried  before  him,  his  beloved  daughter  Margaret  burst 
through  the  guarding  soldiers  and  embraced  him,  beseeching 
his  blessing — a  scene  that  melted  even  those  stern  guards  to 
tears. 

Brutal,  indeed,  were  the  age  and  the  time.  If  Plantagenets, 
Yorkists,  and  Lancastrians  were  frankly  murderous,  Tudors 
and  Stuarts  had  more  refinement  of  cruelty,  dignifying  it, 
more  or  less,  under  the  name  of  law.  The  accession  of  each 
fresh  sovereign  was  the  signal  for  arrests,  life-long  imprison- 
ments, and  executions.  Favourites,  now  deposed  from  favour, 
paid  here  the  penalty  for  a  few  years  of  feverish  greatness  ; 


v  UNHAPPY  PRISONERS  in 

here  suffered  not  only  men  of  unscrupulous  self-seeking,  but 
also  those  whose  chief  fault  was,  like  Caesar's,  ambition,  and 
who  were  condemned  to  answer  for  it  as  grievously  as  Caesar. 
Nor  did  past  affliction  teach  present  mercy.  The  Princess 
Elizabeth  narrowly  herself  escaped  a  tragic  fate  in  early  youth  ; 
yet  her  former  imprisonment  in  the  "  Bell "  Tower  made  her 
scarcely  less  cruel,  in  the  after-time,  to  her  real  or  imaginary 
enemies.  Partly  in  self-defence,  partly  as  a  question  of  faith, 
partly  in  revenge,  both  rivals,  and  also  those  suspected  of 
possible  rivalry,  were  effectually  suppressed.  Even  continua- 
tion of  the  hated  race  of  rivals  seemed  prohibited.  Thus,  Lady 
Jane  Grey's  poor  sister,  Katherine,  was  imprisoned  till  her 
death  for  the  crime  of  secret  marriage  with  the  Earl  of  Hert- 
ford ;  Thomas  Howard,  Duke  of  Norfolk,  was  executed  for 
having  aspired  to  the  hand  of  the  Queen  of  Scots ;  Lady 
Arabella  Stuart,  James  I.'s  unhappy  cousin,  having  married, 
"with  the  love  that  laughs  at  privy  councils,"  Sir  William 
Seymour,  was  caught  while  escaping  with  him  through  Calais 
Roads,  and  languished  here  for  four  years,  till  her  mind  left 
her,  and  she  died.  The  elder  DTsraeli  tells  the  story : 

"  What  passed  in  that  dreadful  imprisonment  cannot  perhaps  be 
recovered  for  authentic  history  ;  but  enough  is  known,  that  her  mind  grew 
impaired,  that  she  finally  lost  her  reason  ;  and  if  the  duration  of  her 
imprisonment  (four  years)  was  short,  it  was  only  terminated  by  her  death. 
Some  loose  effusions,  often  begun  and  never  ended,  written  and  erased, 
incoherent  and  rational,  yet  remain  in  the  fragments  of  her  papers.  In  a 
letter  she  proposed  addressing  to  Viscount  Fenton,  to  implore  for  her  his 
Majesty's  favour  again,  she  says,  '  Good  my  lord,  consider  the  fault 
cannot  be  uncommitted  ;  neither  can  any  more  be  required  of  any  earthly 
creature  but  confession  and  most  humble  submission.'  In  a  paragraph  she 
had  written,  but  crossed  out,  it  seems  that  a  present  of  her  work  had  been 
refused  by  the  king,  and  that  she  had  no  one  about  her  whom  she  might 
trust." 

Of  the  few  stories  of  escapes  from  the  Tower,  none  is  more 
romantic  than  that  of  Lord  Nithsdale,  saved  by  his  wife's 
devotion.  Failing  to  obtain  a  pardon  from  King  George  I. 


ii2  THE  TOWER  LIONS  CHAP. 

she,  in  her  love  and  despair,  bethought  herself  of  a  desperate 
plan.  Under  the  pretence  of  a  last  visit,  and  with  the  conniv- 
ance of  a  faithful  servant,  she  managed  to  disguise  her  husband 
as  her  Welsh  maid,  and  got  him  past  the  Tower  sentries  into 
safety  ;  the  next  morning  he  would  have  perished  with  Lord 
Derwentwater,  "the  pride  of  the  North,"  and  the  rest  of  the 
Scotch  Jacobites. 

Yet  the  Tower,  even  in  mediaeval  times,  was  not  all  tragedy ; 
for  here,  from  Henry  III.'s  era,  a  royal  menagerie  was  kept, — 
a  menagerie  of  which  the  famous  "  Tower  Lions,"  that  existed 
here  up  to  1853,  were  the  eventual  outcome.  (From  the 
Tower  Lions  comes  originally  the  phrase,  "  to  see  the  Lions," 
or  the  sights,  of  a  place.)  The  beasts  are  still  commemorated 
in  the  Tower  by  the  "  Lions'  Gate," — or  principal  entrance. 
The  Tower  Moat,  the  broad  ditch  that  encircled  the  building, 
and  added  to  its  mediaeval  impregnability,  was  drained  in  1843, 
and  its  banks  are  now  planted,  on  the  north-east,  with  a  pleasant 
shrubbery ;  through  which  winds  a  foot-path  with  comfortable 
seats  and  delightful  views,  much  enjoyed  and  appreciated  by 
the  very  poor.  Thus,  the  old  age  of  the  Tower,— Julius  Caesar's 
traditional  fortress,  and  the  scene  of  England's  darkest  national 
crimes, — is,  as  often  that  of  Man  himself,  full  of  benevolence 
and  serenity.  Its  brutal  youth,  its  sanguinary  middle  life,  are 
alike  far  behind  it ;  and  "  that  which  should  accompany  old 
age,  as  honour,  love,  and  troops  of  friends,"  it  may  now 
look  to  have.  And  the  long  roll  of  the  Tower  victims,  lying, 
many  of  them,  in  nameless  graves,  their  very  bones  sometimes 
uncoffined  ;  these  have  at  any  rate,  by  their  death  often  achieved 
an  immortality  greater  than  any  they  could  ever  have  gained 
by  their  lives.  They  were,  in  a  sense,  as  was  that  old  Roman, 
Marcus  Curtius,  sacrifices  to  their  country's  gods ;  for  by  such 
throes  as  overthrew  them,  have  all  nations  reached  peace  and 
salvation.  "  I  see,"  they  might,  like  Sydney  Carton,  have 
cried  prophetically  at  the  block, 


v  GREAT  TOWER  HILL  113 

"  I  see  a  beautiful  city  and  a  brilliant  people  rising  from  this  abyss,  and, 
in  their  struggles  to  be  truly  free,  in  triumphs  and  defeats,  through  long 
years  to  come,  I  see  the  evil  of  this  time  and  of  the  previous  time  .  .  . 
gradually  making  expiation  for  itself." 

Once  outside  the  Tower  precincts,  all  is  changed,  and  you 
are,  again,  in  the  bustle  and  the  din  of  modern  London. 
"  Great  Tower  Hill,"  on  the  rising  ground  north  of  the  Tower, 
and  close  to  Mark  Lane  Station,  is  hardly  an  idyllic  spot,  or 
one  at  all  suitable  to  meditation,  being  generally  much  invaded 
by  the  shouts  of  draymen  and  the  rumble  of  van-wheels.  Close 
by,  in  Trinity  Square  gardens,  marked  by  a  stone,  is  the  spot 
which  for  some  centuries  shared  with  "  Tyburn  "  the  honour, 
or  dishonour,  of  being  the  public  execution-place  ;  but,  while 
Great  Tower  Hill  was  mostly  the  last  bourne  of  political  and 
state  prisoners,  Tyburn  (the  present  "  Marble  Arch "),  was 
reserved  for  common  murderers,  robbers,  and  their  like.  Eng- 
land, in  those  days,  must  have  enjoyed  rare  galas  in  the  way  of 
executions  !  Of  that  old  rogue,  Lord  Lovat,  beheaded  here  in 
1747,  it  is  recorded,  that  just  before  the  fatal  axe  fell,  a  scaffold- 
ing, containing  some  thousand  persons,  set  there  to  enjoy  the 
spectacle,  collapsed,  killing  twelve  of  them  ;  a  sight  at  which 
the  old  man,  even  at  that  terrible  moment,  chuckled  merrily, 
"  enjoying,  no  doubt,  the  downfall  of  so  many  Whigs." 

Trinity  Square  has  still  a  pleasant,  old-fashioned  air  of 
seclusion  ;  although  all  around  and  about  it  are  grimy  lanes  and 
warehouses,  suggesting  the  close  proximity  of  wharves  and 
docks.  Yet  Trinity  Square,  like  Charterhouse  Square,  is 
no  longer  residential ;  the  look  of  "  home,"  of  comfortable 
family  life,  about  its  sober  brick  houses,  is  merely  a  hollow 
sham  ;  they  are  mainly  offices.  Near  by  is  the  Royal  Mint, 
"where,"  so  Mark  Tapley  informed  his  American  friends,  "the 
Queen  lives,  to  take  care  of  all  the  money."  At  the  end  of  the 
big,  noisy  street  called  the  Minories,  leading  from  the  Tower 
to  Aldgate,  rises  the  tall,  black,  three-storied  spire  of  St. 

i 


ii4  THE  MINORIES  CHAP. 

Botolph's  Church,  built  by  Dance  in  1744,  on  an  old  site.  This 
church  is  hardly  beautiful  in  itself ;  yet  its  effect,  as  seen  from 
the  Minories,  is  good.  The  jurisdiction  of  St.  Botolph,  always  a 
popular  London  saint,  is  now  extended  to  the  tiny  Church  of 
Holy  Trinity,  in  the  Minories,  a  small  yellowish  building,  some 
what  like  St.  Ethelburga  in  Bishopsgate  Street,  with  the  same 
kind  of  abbreviated  turret.  When  you  have  succeeded  in 
finding  this  church  (which  is  difficult,  as  it  is  hidden  down  a 
side  street  off  the  Minories,  and,  as  usual  in  London,  no  single 
inhabitant  appears  to  know  where  it  is),  you  then  usually  find  it 
locked,  with  a  saddening  notice  to  the  effect  that  the  keys  are 
in  some  equally  unknown  and  distant  region.  Yet  you  must 
not  despair.  Such  drawbacks  are  inseparable  from  the  pursuit 
of  historical  antiquities  in  London.  It  seems,  however,  a  pity 
to  have  recently  changed  the  identity  of  this  small  church, 
thus  rendering  it  still  more  difficult  to  find.  Originally,  it  gave 
its  name  to  the  whole  district ;  having  belonged  to  an  abbey  of 
"  Minoresses,"  or  nuns  of  the  order  of  St.  Clare ;  the  living, 
and  also  the  name,  are  amalgamated  with  that  of  St.  Botolph, 
Aldgate,  which  now  possesses  also  its  chief  claim  to  fame.  For, 
though  the  little  church  still  possesses  some  good  monuments, 
the  relic  formerly  shown  here,  the  dessicated  head  of  a  man, 
said  to  be  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  father  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  is 
now  removed  to  the  larger  church.  The  decapitated  head  is 
certainly  sufficiently  ghastly,  with  the  neck  still  showing  the 
usual  first  stroke  of  the  bungling  executioner,  and  the  loose 
teeth,  yellow  skin,  and  mouth  with  "  the  curve  of  agony  "  to 
which  attention  is  usually  drawn.  The  evidence  for  the  head 
being  that  of  the  Duke  of  Suffolk  rests  mainly  on  the  fact  that 
the  Church  of  "  Holy  Trinity  "  was  the  chapel  of  the  Duke  of 
Suffolk's  town-house,  and  the  place  whither  his  head  would 
naturally  be  brought  after  decapitation  on  Tower-hill. 

At  No.  9,  Minories,  over  the  shop  of  one  John  Owen, 
nautical  instrument-maker,  is  the  figure  of  the  "  Little  Midship- 
man," described  by  Dickens  in  Dombey  and  Son.  But  it  is 


v  OLD  CITY  CHURCHES  115 

difficult  to  walk  in  the  Minories ;  everywhere  crates  and  cranes 
seem  to  threaten  you,  and  paper  from  printing  offices  bristles 

from  windows   on   to  your  devoted   head This   must 

always    have    been   a    noisy    quarter.      In    old   days    it    was 
famous  for  its  gunsmiths,  as  witness  Congreve's  lines  : 

"  The  mulcibers  who  in  the  Minories  sweat, 
And  massive  bars  on  stubborn  anvils  beat — " 

You  leave  the  Minories  without  regret,  and  turn  your  face 
jain  Citywards.  The  church  of  All  Hallows,  Barking  (so 
illed  from  the  nuns  of  old  Barking  Abbey),  is  further  west, 
in  Great  Tower  Street,  close  to  the  Tower  precincts.  It  is 
another  church  that  escaped  the  Great  Fire,  and  it  contains 
the  graves  of  some  of  the  Tower  victims.  It  has  also  some 
good  monumental  brasses,  one  especially,  of  fine  Flemish 
workmanship,  in  the  pavement  in  the  centre  of  the  nave. 
These  old  City  churches  are  now  most  of  them  well  served 
and  tended,  the  Sunday  services  in  some  of  them  being  much 
sought  after.  They  are  also  probably  kept  in  better  repair 
than  in  Dickens's  time,  when,  overgrown,  dirty,  and  isolated  in 
the  midst  of  traffic  and  bustle,  they  struck  the  novelist  only 
with  their  weird  desolation, — a  desolation  as  of  some  sentient 
and  human  thing.  Thus  vividly  he  described  his  feelings  while 
attending  service  in  one  of  them  : 

"  There  is  a  pale  heap  of  books  in  the  corner  of  my  pew,  and  while  the 
organ,  which  is  hoarse  and  sleepy,  plays  in  such  fashion  that  I  can  hear  more 
of  the  rusty  working  of  the  stops  than  of  any  music,  I  look  at  the  books,  which 
are  mostly  bound  in  faded  baize  and  stuff.  They  belonged,  in  1754,  to  the 
Dowgate  family  ;  and  who  were  they  ?  Jane  Comport  must  have  married 
Young  Dowgate,  and  come  into  the  family  that  way  ;  Young  Dowgate  was 
courting  Jane  Comport  when  he  gave  her  her  prayer-book,  and  recorded 
the  presentation  on  the  fly-leaf.  If  Jane  were  fond  of  Young  Dowgate, 
why  did  she  die  and  leave  the  book  here  ?  Perhaps  at  the  rickety  altar, 
and  before  the  damp  commandments,  she,  Comport,  had  taken  him, 
Dowgate,  in  a  flush  of  youthful  hope  and  joy,  and  perhaps  it  had  not 
turned  out  in  the  long  run  as  great  a  success  as  was  expected. 

"The  opening  of  the  service  recalls  my  wandering  thoughts  ....  I 

I  2 


ii6  SEETHING  LANE  CHAP. 

find  that  I  have  been  taking  a  kind  of  invisible  snuff  ....  I  wink,  sneeze 
and  cough  ....  snuff  made  of  the  decay  of  matting,  wood,  cloth,  stone, 
iron,  earth  and  something  else  ....  the  decay  of  dead  citizens  .... 
Dead  citizens  stick  on  the  walls  and  lie  pulverised  on  the  sounding-board 
over  the  clergyman's  head,  and,  when  a  gust  of  air  comes,  tumble  down 
upon  him." 

And,  further,  with  regard  to  the  surrounding  bustle  and 
merchandise  in  the  busy  streets  : 

"  In  the  churches  about  Mark  Lane  there  was  a  dry  whiff  of  wheat ;  and  I 
accidentally  struck  an  airy  sample  of  barley  out  of  an  aged  hassock  in  one 
of  them.  From  Rood  Lane  to  Tower  Street,  and  thereabouts,  there  was 
often  a  subtle  flavour  of  wine, — sometimes  of  tea.  One  church,  near 
Mincing  Lane,  smelt  like  a  druggist's  drawer.  Behind  the  Monument,  the 
service  had  a  flavour  of  damaged  oranges,  which,  a  little  farther  down 
towards  the  river,  tempered  into  herrings,  and  gradually  toned  into  a 
cosmopolitan  blast  of  fish.  In  one  church,  the  exact  counterpart  of  the 
church  in  the  Rakers  Progress,  where  the  hero  is  being  married  to  the 
horrible  old  lady,  there  was  no  specialty  of  atmosphere,  until  the  organ  shook 
a  perfume  of  hides  all  over  us  from  some  adjacent  warehouse." 

(The  church  depicted  in  Hogarth's  Rake's  Progress  was, 
however,  the  older  church  of  St.  Marylebone,  now  rebuilt.) 

The  next  turning  on  the  right  from  Great  Tower  Street  is 
Seething  Lane,  leading  to  Hart  Street,  noted  principally  for 
that  ancient  church  of  St.  Olave  that  was  one  of  the  Great 
Fire's  few  survivals.  Its  little  churchyard  opens  on  to  the 
muddy,  narrow  alley  called  Seething  Lane,  by  a  picturesque 
gateway,  grimly  decorated  with  carven  skulls ;  tradition  says 
in  the  memory  of  the  many  plague  victims  buried  here.  In- 
deed it  is  a  grisly  monument  of  the  time  when  the  plague-cart 
rumbled  in  the  streets,  when  a  red  cross  marked  the  infected 
houses,  and  when  the  stones  echoed  to  the  hoarse  and  terrible 
cry,  "  Bring  out  your  dead  !  "  Perhaps  Seething  Lane  was  less 
muddy  and  slummy  in  Samuel  Pepys's  time ;  for  that  authority 
lived  here,  in  a  house  "adjoining  the  Navy  Office,"  where  he 
held  the  position  of  "Clerk  of  the  Acts," — and  surely  he  was 
nothing  if  not  fussy.  The  locality,  owing  to  the  successive 


v  ST.  OLAVE'S,  HART  STREET  117 

distractions  of  Plague  and  Fire,  cannot  have  been  exactly 
peaceful.  In  his  "Diary"  entry  for  January  3oth,  1665 — 6, 
Pepys  says  : 

"  It  frighted  me  indeed  to  go  through  the  church,  more  than  I  thought 
it  could  have  done,  to  see  so  many  graves  lie  so  high  upon  the  churchyard 
where  people  have  been  buried  of  the  Plague.  I  was  much  troubled  at  it, 
and  do  not  think  to  go  through  it  again  a  good  while." 

The  quaint  names  of  old  London  churches  are  very  attrac- 
tive. This  St.  Olave,  or  Olaf,  was  a  favourite  saint  of  ancient 
London;  he  was  an  eleventh-century  Scandinavian  king, 
canonised  because  of  his  zealous  propagation  of  Christianity 
among  his  people.  Three  other  London  churches,  in  South- 
wark,  Jewry,  and  Silver  Street  (the  last  two  no  longer  existing), 
were  called  after  him.  The  immediate  purlieus  of  St.  Olave's, 
Hart  Street,  are  not  exactly  savoury,  its  proximity  to  the  river 
traffic  and  warehouses  making  it  occasionally  somewhat  odo- 
riferous as  well  as  muddy  ;  it  were  better,  therefore,  to  choose 
a  fine,  dry  day  for  this  excursion.  It  is  not  always  easy  to  get 
inside  the  church ;  on  week-days,  the  street  seems  to  be 
more  or  less  of  a  stagnant  back-water ;  and  should  your  fate 
compel  you  to  find  St.  Olave's  locked,  you  may  stand  and 
knock  all  day,  but  nobody  will  heed  you  ;  or,  if  they  do 
heed,  will  probably  put  you  down  as  a  wandering  lunatic. 
Nevertheless,  St.  Olave's  should  be  visited ;  for  its  monuments 
are  many  and  interesting.  Samuel  Pepys,  as  parishioner  and 
near  neighbour,  used  to  attend  service  here,  with  his  pretty 
wife ;  and  Mrs.  Pepys's  bust,  in  white  marble,  erected  by  her 
husband,  stands  on  the  north  side  of  the  chancel,  above  her 
tablet  and  long  epitaph.  Poor  Elizabeth  Pepys  !  She  was 
only  twenty-nine  when  she  died,  and  that  long,  artificial  Latin 
screed  seems  all  too  long  and  laboured  for  her  lovely  and 
poetic  youth.  Perhaps  her  husband,  whose  pew  faces  the 
monument,  liked  during  his  long  widowhood  to  gaze  at  that 
charming  memorial,  and — who  knows  ? — to  enjoy  his  fine  Latin 
composition.  Pepys  himself  was  buried  here  later ;  his  own 


ri8  THE  MONUMENT  CHAP. 

monument,  however,  only  dates  from  1883,  when  it  was  raised 
by  public  subscription. 

In  St.  Olave's  church  occurs  that  curious  and  often-quoted 
epitaph  of  1584,  inscribed  to  "John  Orgene  and  Ellyne, 
his  wife  "  : 

"  As  I  was,  so  be  ye  ; 

As  I  am,  you  shall  be  ; 

That  I  gave,  that  I  have ; 

That  I  spent,  that  1  had  ; 

Thus  I  ende  all  my  coste, 

That  I  lefte,  that  I  loste." 

Wandering  along  Great  Tower  Street, — and  Eastcheap,  remi- 
niscent of  Falstaff  and  Dame  Quickly, — we  reach  the  ever-fishy 
region  of  the  Monument.  The  Monument  is  so  tall  that  it  is 
difficult  to  see  it;  indeed,  I  cannot  tell  exactly  why  the  Monu- 
ment seems  always  as  difficult  of  discovery  as  the  middle  of  a 
maze ;  you  seem  continually  close  upon  it,  and  yet  you  hardly 
ever  reach  it.  No  one  can  ever  direct  the  pedestrian  to  it ;  though 
this,  indeed,  may  not  be  the  fault  of  the  Monument,  but 
simply  because  the  average  Londoner  never  does  know  any- 
thing about  the  immediate  neighbourhood  he  inhabits.  He 
has  even  been  known  to  live  in  the  next  street  to  the  British 
Museum  for  years,  and  then  be  ignorant  that  such  an  institu- 
tion exists.  Such  superiority  to  external  facts  is,  no  doubt, 
noble;  but  it  has  its  drawbacks.  And  sometimes  the  indi- 
viduals questioned  take  refuge  in  a  crushing  silence.  The  last 
time,  indeed,  that  I  myself  visited  the  Monument,  I  inquired 
politely  of  two  fishy  youths  in  turn  of  its  whereabouts,  and 
received  no  answer.  Possibly  this  was  merely  their  courteous 
way  of  informing  me  that  they  were  really  too  busy  to  attend 
to  such  trivialities.  To  return,  however,  to  the  deluding  Monu- 
ment :  Dickens,  it  is  true,  in  Martin  Chuzzlewit  makes  Mr. 
Tom  Pinch  and  Miss  Pecksniff  find  their  way  thither  (Tom, 
having  lost  his  way,  very  naturally  finds  himself  at  the 
Monument)  : 


v  THE  MAN  IN  THE  MONUMENT  119 

"  The  Man  in  the  Monument  was  quite  as  mysterious  a  being  to  Tom  as 
the  Man  in  the  Moon.  It  immediately  occurred  to  him  that  the  lonely 
creature  who  held  himself  aloof  from  all  mankind  in  that  pillar,  like  some 
old  hermit,  was  the  very  man  of  whom  to  ask  his  way.  ...  If  Truth 
didn't  live  in  the  base  of  the  Monument,  notwithstanding  Pope's  couplet 
about  the  outside  of  it,  where  in  London  was  she  likely  to  be  found  ? 

"  Coming  close  below  the  pillar,  it  was  a  great  encouragement  to  Tom 
to  find  that  the  Man  in  the  Monument  had  simple  tastes  ;  that  stony  and 
artificial  as  his  residence  was,  he  still  preserved  some  rustic  recollections ; 
that  he  liked  plants,  hung  up  bird-cages,  was  not  wholly  cut  off  from  fresh 
groundsel,  and  kept  young  trees  in  tubs.  The  Man  in  the  Monument  was 
sitting  outside  his  own  door,  the  Monument  door ;  and  was  actually 
yawning,  as  if  there  were  no  Monument  to  stop  his  mouth,  and  give  him  a 
perpetual  interest  in  his  own  existence  ....  Two  people  came  to  see  the 
Monument,  a  gentleman  and  lady  ;  and  the  gentleman  said,  '  How  much 
a-piece  ? ' 

"  The  Man  in  the  Monument  replied,  '  A  Tanner.' 

"  It  seemed  a  low  expression,  compared  with  the  Monument. 

"  The  gentleman  put  a  shilling  into  his  hand,  and  the  Man  in  the  Monu- 
ment opened  a  dark  little  door.  When  the  gentleman  and  lady  had  passed 
out  of  view,  he  shut  it  again,  and  came  slowly  back  to  his  chair. 

"  He  sat  down  and  laughed. 

"  '  They  don't  know  what  a  many  steps  there  is  ! '  he  said.  '  It's  worth 
twice  the  money  to  stop  here.  Oh,  my  eye  ! ' 

"  The  Man  in  the  Monument  was  a  Cynic.   ..." 

The  charge  for  the  Monument  is  (I  may  remark  en  passant], 
now  changed  from  a  "  tanner  "  to  the  humble  threepence.  (Its 
summit  gallery  is  now  closed  in,  because  of  the  disagreeable 
mania  for  committing  suicide  from  it.)  The  original  inscription 
on  its  pedestal,  now  effaced,  was  a  curious  relic  of  religious 
intolerance  ;  showing,  by  its  absurd  reference  to  the  "  horrid 
plott  "  of  "  the  Popish  factio,"  the  barbarous  and  primitive 
state  of  popular  feeling  as  late  as  1681.  Wherefore  it  was  that, 
as  Pope  said : 

"  .   .   .  .   London's  Column,  pointing  to  the  skies, 
Like  a  tall  bully,  lifts  its  head  and  lies." 

One  must  not,  however,  forget  that  this  attempt  to  attribute 
the  dire  calamity  to  private  malice  must  have  been  infinitely 


120  A  CONVENIENT  DISPENSATION  CH.  v 

comforting  to  the  public  mind,  that  ever,  even  in  our  own  en- 
lightened day,  needs  a  scapegoat.  In  still  older  days,  the 
scapegoats  took  a  more  conveniently  personal  form,  and  were 
usually,  as  we  have  seen,  brought  to  the  block  on  Great  Tower 
Hill :  which  was,  of  course,  a  much  simpler  mode  of  dealing 
with  them. 


CHAPTER    VI 

SOUTHWARK,    OLD    AND    NEW 

"  The  Thames  marks  the  sharp  division  between  what  Lord  Beaconsfield 
called  '  the  two  nations.'  On  one  side  we  have  our  nearest  English 
approach  to  architectural  magnificence  ;  on  the  other  there  is  a  long 
perspective  of  squalid  buildings — smoke-begrimed,  half-ruinous,  and  yet 
not  altogether  unlovely." — Magazine  of  Art,  January,  1884. 

"  Befel,  that  in  that  season,  on  a  day 
In  Southwark  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
Ready  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury  with  ful  devout  courage, 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelry 
Well  nine-and-twenty  in  a  company 
Of  sundry  folk,  by  adventure  y-fall 
In  fellowship,  and  pilgrims  were  they  all, 
That  toward  Canterbury  woulden  ride." 

— Chaucer:  Canterbury  Tales. 

NEAR  to  the  fishy  and  noisy  purlieus  of  the  "  Monument," 
London  Bridge  crosses  the  river  into  Southwark. 

London  Bridge  is  the  terminus  for  big  ships ;  from  its  parapet 
is  seen,  as  far  as  the  misty  Tower  Bridge,  a  vast  city  of  masts, 
sails,  and  wharves.  Big  steamers  often  make  this  their  starting- 
point  for  excursions,  and  sails  of  Venetian  colour  charm  the 
eye.  In  cold  winters  the  sea-gulls,  flying  hither  in  myriads  from 
the  icy  North  Seas,  come  to  the  Londoner's  call,  sure  of  food 
a.nd  welcome,  filling  grey  sky  and  silvery  river  with  an  ever- 
changing  constellation  of  white  wings  ;  "  a  blaze  of  comet 
splendour."  Wild  birds,  like  children,  know  their  friends. 


122  ST.  MARY  OVERY  CHAP. 

The  sea-gull's  wide,  downward  swoop,  so  powerful  and  so 
graceful,  may  be  watched  here  in  January  from  early  morn  to 
dusk ;  the  creatures,  poised  in  serried  ranks  on  the  barges  and 
stone  piers,  are  just  as  much  at  home  here  as  on  their  own 
northern  pinnacles,  and  after  long  sojourn,  they  become  so 
tame  that  they  will  almost  feed  from  the  stranger's  hand.  It 
is  only,  however,  during  the  severe  weather  that  the  sea-gulls' 
visit  lasts  ;  with  the  first  warm  February  days  they  are  off  again, 
speeding  down  the  river  to  their  native  haunts. 

Close  to  the  foot  of  London  Bridge,  on  the  Southwark  side, 
is  the  fine  cruciform  church  of  St.  Saviour's,  lately  restored  on 
the  lines  of  the  ancient  edifice.  This  church,  which  had  formerly 
been  much  mutilated  by  careless  and  tasteless  "  restorers,"  was 
in  long  past  times  the  Norman  Priory  of  St.  Mary  Overy,  and  its 
old  nave,  of  which  the  fragments  may  yet  be  seen,  was  built 
in  1 1 06  by  Gifford,  Bishop  of  Winchester.  A  century  later, 
another  Bishop  built  the  choir  and  Lady  Chapel,  and  altered 
the  character  of  the  nave  from  Norman  to  Early  English. 
Then,  at  the  Dissolution,  St.  Mary  Overy  was  made  into  a 
parish  church  by  Henry  VIII.,  and  since  1540,  it  has  been 
known  as  "  St.  Saviour's."  The  early  Saxon  dedication  to 
"  St.  Mary  Overy  "  commemorates  the  romantic  story  of  the 
rich  old  ferryman's  lovely  daughter,  of  pre-Conquest  times,  who, 
losing  her  lover  by  a  fall  from  his  horse,  retired  into  a  cloister 
for  life,  devoting  her  paternal  wealth  to  the  founding  of  a 
priory.  The  story  is  charming,  but  somewhat  misty  ;  it  sug- 
gests, however,  the  advantages  accruing  to  ferrymen  when  there 
were  no  bridges  on  the  Thames !  An  ancient,  nameless, 
ghoul-like  figure,  in  St.  Saviour's  Church,  is  still  pointed  out 
as  the  old  ferryman,  father  of  the  foundress  ;  but  this  is  probably 
traditional.  Skeleton-like  figures,  not  representing  any  one  in 
particular,  were  not  infrequently  placed  about  in  mediaeval 
churches ;  in  order,  perhaps,  to  bring  the  congregation  to  a 
sufficiently  sober  frame  of  mind,  as  well  as  to  recall  to  them 
their  latter  end. 


vi  ST.  SAVIOUR'S,  SOUTHWARK  123 

St.  Saviour's,  as  it  is  now,  is  one  of  the  most  striking  churches 
in  London ;  its  interior  appeals  at  once  to  the  eye  and  to  the 
imagination.  The  long  aisles  are  restful  and  harmonious  ;  the 
Early-English  architecture  is  severely  pure ;  the  fine  effect  of 
the  beautifully-restored  nave  and  transepts  is  not,  as  too  often 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  spoiled  by  the  introduction  of  ornate 
tombs  and  sprawling  angels.  The  church,  restored  by  Blom- 
field  in  1890-96,  is  already  a  collegiate  church,  and  is  worthy 
to  become,  as  it  probably  will,  the  cathedral  for  South  London. 
Its  level,  as  is  the  case  with  many  ancient  buildings,  is  now 
considerably  lower  than  the  surrounding  ground  ;  a  fact  testified 
by  the  steps  necessary  to  descend  into  its  precincts  from  the 
street,  and  by  the  very  unpoetic  railway,  carried  well  above  it 
and  its  adjoining  vegetable  market  (the  Borough  Market).  For 
this  is  a  strangely  busy  and  noisy  spot  to  have  sheltered  for  so 
long  this  relic  of  the  Middle  Age. 

The  tombs  in  the  church  are  mainly  in  the  transepts,  and  are 
nearly  all  of  them  interesting.  The  finely-restored  "Lady 
Chapel,"  behind  the  altar,  contains  the  tomb  of  Lancelot 
Andrewes,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  with  a  long  Latin  inscription 
of  1626;  a  recumbent  painted  effigy,  on  a  black-and-white 
marble  tomb.  This  Lady  Chapel  has  tragic  associations ;  it 
was  used  in  the  time  of  "  Bloody  Mary  "  as  the  Consistorial 
Court  of  Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester ;  and  here  those 
sturdy  martyrs,  Bishop  Hooper  and  John  Rogers,  Vicar  of 
St.  Sepulchre's,  were  condemned  to  be  burnt  (the  popular 
feeling  for  Rogers  being  such  as  necessitated  his  removal  by 
night  secretly  to  Newgate). 

The  most  famous  grave  in  St.  Saviour's  is  that  of  John 
Gower,  the  fourteenth-century  poet,  and  friend  of  Chaucer. 
Here,  near  the  east  end  of  the  north  wall  of  the  nave, 
the  effigy  of  the  poet,  painted,  like  that  of  Lancelot  An- 
drewes, a  figure  of  striking  beauty,  lies  on  a  sarcophagus 
under  a  rich  gabled  canopy.  Stow  thus  describes  the  monu- 
ment : 


i24  GOWER'S  TOMB  CHAP. 

"He  lieth  under  a  tomb  of  stone,  with  his  image,  also  of  stone,  ovei 
him  ;  the  hair  of  his  head,  auburn,  long  to  his  shoulders  but  curling  up,  and 
a  small  forked  beard  ;  on  his  head  a  chaplet  like  a  coronet  of  four  roses  ;  a 
habit  of  purple,  damasked  down  to  his  feet ;  a  collar  of  esses  gold  about 
his  neck  ;  under  his  head  the  likeness  of  three  books  which  he  compiled." 

Gower  was  a  rich  man  for  a  poet,  and  gave  large  sums  in 
his  time  for  the  rebuilding  of  the  church  ;  hence  was  written 
the  following  epigram  : 

"  This  church  was  rebuilt  by  John  Gower,  the  rhymer, 
Who  in  Richard's  gay  court  was  a  fortunate  climber  ; 
Should  any  one  start,  'tis  but  right  he  should  know  it, 
Our  wight  was  a  lawyer  as  well  as  a  poet." 

Gower's  three  chief  works,  on  which  his  head  rests,  are  his 
Vox  Clamantis,  Speculum  Meditantis,  and  Confessio  Amantis. 

Many  other  curious  tombs  and  epitaphs  are  in  this  church. 
One,  especially,  of  the  latter,  a  tablet  to  a  little  girl  of  ten, 
Susanna  Barford, — a  child  the  "  Non  such  of  the  world  for  piety 
and  vertue  in  soe  tender  yeares,"  — tells  how  : 

"  Such  grace  the  King  of  Kings  bestow'd  upon  her 
That  now  shee  lives  with  him  a  maid  of  honour." 

And  in  the  north  transept,  there  is  a  curious  monument  to 
Dr.  Lionel  Lockyer,  the  pill  inventor — a  large  bewigged, 
reclining  figure  of  Charles  II.'s  time — suffering,  apparently, 
despite  his  infallible  nostrums,  from  terrible  internal  spasms. 
Perhaps,  however,  these  may  bear  some  mystic  reference  to  the 
long  accompanying  epitaph  about  "undying  Pills,"  showing 
that  already  in  the  seventeenth  century  advertisement  could  be 
strong  even  in  death  !  Close  to  Lockyer's  tomb  are  heaped 
up  a  number  of  strange  wooden  painted  gargoyles  or  "bosses," 
preserved  and  brought  here  from  the  fallen-in  fifteenth-century 
roof  of  the  nave,  some  of  them  bearing  most  weird  devices. 
One,  conceived  apparently  in  the  Dantesque  spirit,  represents 
a  giant,  or  devil,  "  champing  "  a  half-eaten  sinner, — the  lower 
half  of  whom,  dressed  in  gaudy  colours,  projects  from  the  large 


vi  THE  SINS  OF  "  RESTORERS  "  125 

vermilion  mouth, — in  great  enjoyment.  Other  "  bosses  "  show 
the  curious  painted  "  rebuses  "  of  the  period,  commemorating 
a  prior's  name.  The  seventeenth-century  monument  to  the 
Austin  family,  also  in  this  transept,  is  full  of  quaint  imagery 
and  symbolism.  The  figures  of  its  sleeping  angels  with 
winnowing-forks,  waiting  on  each  side  for  the  great  final 
harvest,  are  full  of  beauty. 

"  Edmund  Shakespear,  player,"  and  brother  of  the  poet,— 
Fletcher, — and  Massinger, — are  buried  here;  three  stones  in 
the  choir  bear  their  names  ;  the  exact  place  of  their  graves  is 
not  known. 

The  church  is  now  well-kept  and  carefully  tended  ;  it  is  open 
daily  to  the  visitor,  who  may  walk  about  it  without  let  or 
hindrance.  Like  so  many  other  London  churches,  it  has  in  its 
time  suffered  less  from  the  depredations  of  the  plunderer  than 
from  those  of  the  more  dangerous  "  restorer."  As  usual,  a 
long  period  of  neglect  and  decay  was  followed  by  iconoclastic 
cleaning  and  setting  in  order.  Generally,  for  a  considerable 
time  after  the  Dissolution,  the  convent  churches  and  others 
were  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  parishioners,  who, 
naturally,  could  not  always  afford  to  keep  them  in  proper 
condition ;  then  abuses  crept  in.  thefts  took  place  ;  and  the 
disused  churches,  as  St.  Paul's  itself,  were  often  degraded  to 
stables,  or  used  as  storage  for  litter.  Then,  after  long  years, 
the  authorities,  perhaps,  came  to  the  rescue,  and,  turning  out 
the  encroaching  and  invading  devils,  let  in  other  devils  far 
more  wicked,  in  the  shape  of  so-called  "  restorers."  Wonder, 
indeed,  is  it  that  so  much  is  left  to  us  !  The  "  restorers " 
usually  began  by  whitewashing  all  the  columns  of  dark 
Purbeck  marble,  blackening  the  effigies  into  one  uniform  tint, 
and  covering  the  discoloured  carvings  of  the  walls  with  stucco, 
for  the  better  reception  of  which  they  even  (as  may  be  seen  at 
St.  Saviour's)  whittled  away  bits  of  fine  stone  sculpture. 

To  wander  down  the  "  Borough  "  High  Street — that  noisy 
and  essentially  modern  district, — in  search  of  Chaucer's  famous 


126  THE  OLD  SOUTH WARK  INNS  CHAP. 

inns,  is,  alas  !  more  dispiriting  than  looking  for  traces  of 
Dido  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  Here,  one  can  neither 
look  for  ghosts,  nor  feelings  of  the  past ;  all  is  hopelessly 
covered  up  and  hidden  by  ugly  modern  inns,  more  ugly 
modern  shops,  palaces  of  modern  plate-glass  public-houses, 
triumphs  of  early  nineteenth-century  ugliness  in  architecture. 
What  chance,  among  such,  have  the  poor  wandering  ghosts  of 
a  famous  past  ?  And,  since  London  Bridge,  that  natural 
dividing-line  of  peoples,  was  passed,  have  not  the  very  streets 
changed  in  some  subtle  and  unconscious  manner,  to  a  more 
sordid  character  ;  the  shops  to  a  more  blatant  kind,— even  the 
people  to  a  different  and  lower  type  ?  It  may  be  partly  fancy  ; 
yet,  is  not  this  often  the  effect  produced  by  the  "  Surrey  side  "  ? 
The  big  thoroughfare  called  the  Borough  High  Street,  or  more 
simply,  the  "Borough" — (this  part  of  Southwark  has  fairly 
earned  the  right  to  be  called  the  "  Borough,"  having  returned 
two  members  to  Parliament  for  500  years), — this  was  the 
great  highway,  even  in  Roman  times,  between  the  city  and  the 
southern  counties.  East  of  the  Borough,  the  long,  narrow, 
busy,  dirty  Tooley  Street  leads  to  Bermondsey  ;  this  street  is 
famous  for  its  "  three  tailors  "  of  the  political  legend,  accord- 
ing to  which  they  addressed  the  House  of  Commons  as  "  We, 
the  People  of  England."  Here,  from  mediaeval  days,  was  the 
only  bridge  ;  here,  therefore,  were,  naturally,  stationed  all  the 
mediaeval  inns  and  hostelries.  This  way  did  the  "  Canterbury 
Pilgrims "  pass  out  of  London ;  here  they  would  stop  and 
refresh  themselves  at  the  "  Tabard,"  the  "White  Hart,"  and  their 
compeers.  .  .  .  What  now  remains  of  these  ?  The  "  Tabard," 
rebuilt  in  Charles  II's  time,  and  for  long  the  finest  old  house 
of  its  kind  in  London,  was  burnt  down  in  1873  ;  it  now  only 
exists  in  its  name,  still  flaunted  bravely  above  a  commonplace 
modern  inn.  The  "  Queen's  Head,"  the  "  White  Hart,"  the 
"  King's  Head."  exist  now  only  as  hideous  railway-yards  or 
equally  hideous  modern  edifices  ;  the  only  remaining  relic  of 
them  all  is  the  "  George  "  Inn,  where  a  solitary  fragment,  a  long 


THE  "GEORGE"  INN 


127 


block  of  ancient  buildings,  with  picturesque,  sloping,  dormer 
roofs,  and  balustraded  wooden  galleries,  is  yet,  by  the  mercy  of 
the  Great  Northern  Railway  Company,  spared  to  us,  to  tell 
of  its  former  glories.  The  present  hosts  of  the  "  George," — two 
ladies, — are  pleasant,  hospitable  people,  and  their  small,  dark, 
panelled  rooms  are  clean  and 
comfortable.  They  seem,  how- 
ever, to  entertain  a  mild  feel- 
ing of  boredom  for  the  con- 
stant accession  of  reverent 
pilgrims  who  flock  annually 
to  their  shrine.  "  And  it's  only 
for  the  last  few  years,"  the 
younger  lady  remarks,  some- 
what sadly,  "only  since  the 
last  inn,  the  '  Queen's  Head/ 
you  know  was  pulled  down, 
that  so  many  people  have 
come.  A  great  many  Ameri- 
cans .  .  .  oh,  I  suppose  they 
come  out  of  curiosity,  like ; 
one  can't  blame  'em.  Do 
people  stay  here  in  the  sum- 
mer ?  Yes,  a  good  few — 
some  business  men,  but  mostly 
artists  and  tourists ;  it's  just 
curiosity.  Then,  it's,  'Would 
you  mind  if  I  take  a  photo- 
graph ? '  or  '  Have  I  your/- 
leave to  sit  in  the  yard  and  sketch?'  Do  I  let  them  do 
it  ?  .  .  .  oh,  yes  "  (with  a  sigh),  "  it  doesn't  matter  to  me.  I 
suppose  they  may  be  going  to  put  it  in  some  book  or  some 
article  ;  but  it's  nothing  to  me.  .  .  I  never  read  the  article  !  " 

If  this  lady  be  not  a  cynic,  she  at  any  rate  embodies  a  great 
deal  of  the  philosophy  of  life  ! 


Cricket  in  tfu  Street.     The  lost  Ball. 


128  THE  OLD  BANKSIDE  THEATRES  CHAP. 

What  the  other  Inns  were  like,  can  be  more  or  less  seen 
from  this  small  portion  of  one.  They  have  mortly  vanished 
with  the  march  of  progress  of  recent  years,  for  fifty  years  ago 
Dickens  could  still  write  : 

"  In  the  Borough  there  still  remain  some  half-dozen  old  inns  which  have 
preserved  their  external  features  unchanged.  Great  rambling  queer  old 
places,  with  galleries  and  passages  and  staircases  wide  enough  and  antiquated 
enough  to  furnish  materials  for  a  hundred  ghost  stories," 

At  the  old  "  White  Hart,"  now  destroyed,  Dickens  first  intro- 
duced to  the  world  the  immortal  Sam  Weller,  as  he  appeared 
cleaning  the  spinster  aunt's  boots  after  that  sentimental  lady's 
elopement  with  the  deceiving  Mr.  Jingle.  These  old  inns,  in 
the  heyday  of  their  prime,  were  made  still  more  famous  by  the 
open-air  theatrical  representations  that  took  place  in  their  bal- 
conied courtyards.  Toil  and  trouble,  the  eternal  struggle-for- 
life,  may  be  the  portion  of  "  the  Surrey  Side  "  to-day,  but  in 
Shakespeare's  time  it  was  principally  noted  for  its  amusements 
and  its  junketings.  Now,  the  chief  buildings  of  Southwark 
and  Walworth  are  gaols  and  asylums,  and  its  best-known 
localities  are  the  omnibus  terminuses,  dignified  mysteriously  by 
names  of  public-houses, — such  as  the  "Elephant,"  &c.  Even 
the  dramatic  tastes  of  the  people  "  over  the  water "  are  now 
supposed  to  be  primitive  ;  and  "  transpontine  "  is  the  adjective 
applied  to  melodrama  that  is  too  crude  for  the  superior  taste 
of  northern  London.  Yet  here,  in  Shakespeare's  day,  were  all 
the  most,  fashionable  theatres — theatres,  too,  frequented  by  all 
the  literary  and  dramatic  lights  of  the  day.  Here  stood  that 
small  martello-tower-like  theatre,  the  "Globe,"  the  "round 
wooden  ' O '"  alluded  to  in  Henry  V.,  where  Shakespeare 
and  his  companions  played ;  here  also  were  the  "  Rose,"  the 
"  Hope,"  and  the  "  Swan."  And  below  St.  Saviour's,  and  its 
neighbouring  Bishops'  Palace  and  park,  were  the  localities 
known  as  "  Bankside  "  and  "  Paris  Garden,"  the  former  famous 
for  its  bull  and  bear-baiting  ("a  rude  and  nasty  pleasure," 
says  Pepys),  the  latter  for  its  theatre,  and  also  for  its  somewhat 


vi  "WINCHESTER  HOUSE"  129 

doubtful  reputation.  There  were,  of  course,  a  few  plague- 
spots,  inseparable  from  places  of  public  amusement ;  but  the 
Southwark  of  Elizabeth's  day  was  a  centre  of  national  jollity 
and  merry-making.  Open  gardens  fringed  the  river-banks,  by 
which  flowed  a  clear  and  yet  unsullied  Thames,  and  their 
salubrious  walks  were  the  favourite  resort  of  citizens.  Certainly, 
Shakespeare  and  his  associates  would  hardly  recognize  South- 
wark now :  Messrs.  Barclay  and  Perkins's  famous  brewery 
now  covers  the  site  of  the  Globe  Theatre ;  the  ancient  gardens 
have  given  place  to  wharves  and  warehouses ;  the  fashionable 
promenade  to  railway  lines  and  goods  offices ;  the  green  turfy 
banks  to  streets  and  lanes  of  sticky  Southwark  mud.  And 
Southwark  mud  is  surely  of  a  quite  peculiar  stickiness  !  The 
big  brewery,  covering  some  twelve  acres,  is  not  exactly  an 
improvement  on  the  landscape.  It  belonged,  in  1758,  to  Mr. 
Thrale,  husband  of  the  witty  lady  whom  Johnson  loved  as  a 
daughter.  And  though  some  among  us  have,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
prophesied  at  the  sale  of  the  brewery  in  its  early  days,  "grown 
rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,"  yet  the  source  of  riches  is 
seldom  in  itself  beautifying. 

Winchester  House,  the  ancient  palace  of  the  Bishops  of  Win- 
chester, stood  in  Tudor  days  between  St.  Saviour's  and  the 
river  ;  "  a  very  fair  house,  with  a  large  wharf  and  a  landing- 
place."  Here  Bishop  Gardiner  lived  in  great  state,  and  here, 
to  please  his  patron  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  he  arranged  "  little 
banquets  at  which  it  was  contrived  that  Henry  VIII.  should 
meet  the  Duke's  niece,  Katherine  Howard,  then  a  '  lovely  girl  in 
her  teens.'  "  Poor  thing  !  in  a  short  year  or  two  her  head  was 
destined  to  fall,  by  the  headsman's  axe,  within  the  precincts  of 
the  gloomy  Tower,  on  the  river's  opposite  bank  !  The  extent 
of  the  old  palace  is  uncertain ;  its  remains  are  now  nearly  all 
destroyed,  except  an  old  window  and  arch,  built  up  into  the 
surrounding  warehouses.  The  name,  however,  of  the  "  Clink," 
the  prison  used  by  the  Bishops  for  the  punishment  of  heretics, 
still  exists  in  the  modern  Clink  Street.  In  the  same  way, 

K 


130 


DICKENS  AND  THE  MARSHALSEA 


CHAP, 


"  Mint  Street,"  Borough,  recalls  an  ancient  and  forgotten  mint, 
established  here  by  Henry  VIII.  for  coinage  ;  and  Lant  Street 
— but  Lant  Street  recalls  nothing  so  much  as  Dickens,  and  his 
creation  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer.  Dickens  lived  in  Lant  Street  him- 
self as  a  boy,  while  his  insolvent  family  were  rusticating  in 
the  neighbouring  Marshalsea  ;  hence  he  knew  it  well  • 


A  County  Court. 

"A  bed  and  bedding"  (he  writes)  "were  sent  over  for  me"  (from  the 
Marshalsea),  "and  made  up  on  the  floor.  The  little  window  had  a 
pleasant  prospect  of  a  timber-yard  ;  and  when  I  took  possession  of  my  new 
abode,  I  thought  it  was  a  Paradise. " 

"  The  Crown  Revenues,"  Dickens  further  adds  (in  describing 


vi  THE  POOR  OF  THE  BOROUGH  131 

the  abode  of  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer),  "  are  seldom  collected  in  this 
happy  valley ;  the  rents  are  dubious,  and  the  water  commu- 
nication is  very  frequently  cut  off." 

If  South wark  contained  many  doubtful  characters  in  Shake- 
speare's time,  it  contains,  as  Mr.  Charles  Booth's  book  shows 
us,  some  "  black  spots"  of  crime  still  !  The  old  Marshalsea 
and  the  King's  Bench  Prisons  must  always  have  been  a  centre 
of  drifting  and  shiftless  population.  All  parts  of  the  "  Borough  " 
do  not  enjoy  a  thoroughly  good  reputation  ;  bad  sanitation, 
overcrowding,  all  the  worst  sins  of  the  much-abused  "  East 
End,"  may  here  too  be  seen.  "  Is  any  one,"  asks  a  recent 
writer,  "  ever  young  in  the  Borough  ?  Is  not  carking  care  their 
birthright  ?  "  In  crowded  Southwark  and  Walworth,  round  the 
"  Elephant," — the  mysterious  "  Elephant,"  to  which  all  roads 
lead, — "aflare,  seething,  roaring  with  multitudinous  life,"  are 
miserable  human  rabbit-warrens,  where  they  even  live  ten  in  a 
room.  "  Pore,  sir,"  cries  Mrs.  Pullen  (one  of  the  submerged), 
"  pore  !  why,  the  Mint,  sir,  the  Mint,  sir,  is  known  for  it ;  you've 
'erd  on  it  your  ways,  ain't  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Pullen  held  up  her 
hands  and  laughed,  as  if  she  was  really  proud  of  "  the  Mint  and 
its  poverty."  But,  though  the  Borough  children— poor  little 
wastrels  — are  still  wild, — Education,  it  seems,  is  slowly  taming 
them. 

Those  who  are  interested  in  the  children  of  the  poor, — and 
who  is  not? — should  read  Mr.  Charles  Morley's  sympathetic 
"Studies  in  Board  Schools,"  a  considerable  portion  of  which 
refers  to  Walworth  and  the  Borough.  The  redeeming  of  the 
infant  population  of  London  is  surely  a  noble  work,  and 
nowhere  are  the  parental  methods  of  the  Board  Schools  so  well 
set  forth  as  in  that  delightful  volume,  real  with  the  reality  of 
life,  and,  like  life  itself,  something  between  laughter  and  tears. 
Life  has  few  mysteries  for  the  Borough  child,  whose  garments 
are  strange  and  weird,  whose  voice  "  soon  loses  any  infantine 
sweetness  it  may  possess^  Some  of  the  ragged  mites  of  girls 
of  the  Borough  will  even  rap  out  an  oath  which  would  shock 

K    2 


132  "THE  FARM  HOUSE"  CHAP. 

your  ears  who  live  over  the  water.  But  they  mean  nothing.  It 
is  like  sailors'  language,  only  sound  and  a  little  temper.  Why, 
even  the  chirrup  of  the  Borough  sparrow  has  a  minatory  ring 
about  it."  Mr.  Morley  goes  on  to  tell  of  a  kindly  institution 
dubbed  "  the  Farm  House  "  (strange  name  in  such  surround- 
ings !),  where,  owing  to  Mr.  G.  R.  Sims  and  the  "  Referee,"  six 
or  seven  hundred  hungry  school-children  are,  like  the  sparrows 
and  sea-gulls,  fed  daily  during  the  long  winter : 

"The  Farm  House"  (he  says),  "is  a  strange  mansion  to  find  in  the 
heart  of  the  Marshalsea — just  over  the  way  is  the  site  of  the  famous 
prison.  The  graveyard  of  St.  George  the  Martyr  is  now  a  public  garden,  grim 
enough,  to  be  sure,  with  its  black  tombstones  and  soot-laden  balsam  poplars. 
On  one  of  the  walls  is  placed  a  board  on  which  is  printed  the  legend  :  '  This 
stands  on  the  site  of  the  Marshalsea  Prison  described  (or  words  to  this 
effect)  in  Charles  Dickens's  well-known  novel,  Little  Dorrit.'  The 
Farm  House  was  once  the  town  dwelling  of  the  Earls  of  Winchester.  It 
has  an  ancient  time-woin  front,  a  court,  mysterious  chambers,  old  oak 
panels  upon  which  you  can  just  make  out  some  of  the  old  Winchester 
ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  a  curious  old  staircase  ;  and  I  daresay  a  ghost  or  two 
if  one  went  into  the  matter.  But  for  a  long  time  past  it  has  been  a 
common  lodging-house.  Beds  in  a  haunted  chamber  may  be  had  at 
fourpence  a  night.  Many  a  strange  history  could  those  white-washed  walls 
tell  if  they  could  speak,  I  dare  say — of  the  good  old  days  in  Henry  the 
Eighth's  time,  and  even  of  more  recent  years.  Many  a  man  who  began  life 
with  the  hopefullest  prospects  has  been  glad  to  hide  his  head  in  the  old 
Farm  House,  down  Marshalsea  way,  Borough." 

"  Misery,"  continues  this  writer,  "  is  strangely  prolific  ;  every 
hovel,  every  court,  every  alley  teems  with  children,"  "little 
mothers  "  carrying  heavy  babies,  like  Miss  Dorothy  Tennant's 
tender  picture,  A  Load  of  Care.  .  .  .  that  heavy,  heavy  baby, 
weighing  down  that  tiny,  tiny  nurse.  .  .  .  Nota  Bcne  :  There 
always  is  a  baby.  By  the  time  a  little  wool  appears  on  the 
head  of  number  one,  number  two  appears,  and  so  on  — well, 
nearly  ad  infinitum.  There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  babies 
are  the  bugbears  of  the  Borough  ratepayers." 

The  Board  Schools  in  these  districts  teach,  it  appears,  not 


vi  ''LITTLE  MOTHER1 


133 


only  "  the  three   R's,"    but   also   housewifery,  house-cleaning, 
cooking,  and  other  most  necessary  accomplishments  : 

"  Housewifery"  (says  Mr.  Morley)  "is  the  birthright  of  the  children  of 
the  poor  ....  Every  mite  of  a  girl  down  in  the  East  or  South  ....  is 
a  housewife  by  the  time  she  is  six  ....  Often  enough  when  times  are  hard 
and  funds  very  low — when  father  is  out  o'  work,  and  mother's  bad  in  bed  " 
— does  the  poor  little  mother  set  forth  with  scrubbing-brush  in  hand,  and 
clean  the  door-steps  of  the  prosperous  for  twopence  or  threepence, 
according  to  the  size  and  number  of  the  steps.  She  probably  lights  the 
fire  of  a  morning  ;  it  is  her  delight,  to  go  shopping  to  the  remarkable 
establishment  where  most  of  the  necessities  of  life  are  to  be  obtained  by 
the  farthing's-worth  ;  and  with  the  mysteries  of  marketing  she  is  very  well 
acquainted  indeed.  You  should  just  see  her  in  Bermondsey,  the  Walworth 
Road,  the  Dials,  the  New  Cut,  or  Whitechapel  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when 
these  localities  are  alive  with  poor  people  buying  their  dinners.  Road  and 
footpath  are  blocked  with  stalls  and  barrows,  and  flesh,  fish,  fowl  and 
vegetables  are  all  jumbled  together  in  confusion  that  is  apparently  inextric- 
able. But  little  mother  knows  her  way  about,  and  whether  it  is  red  meat 
or  white  meat,  beef,  mutton  or  rabbit,  trust  her  for  getting  a  bargain,  for 
keeping  a  sharp  eye  on  weight  and  measure.  A  farden  is  a  farden  in 
districts  where  a  penny  is  a  substantial  coin  of  the  realm." 

The  "  Surrey  Side  "  is  noted  for  its  hospitals,  as  well  as  its 
prisons  and  its  slums  ;  and  of  these  "  Guy's  Hospital,"  on  the 
left  of  the  Borough  High  Street, — an  eighteenth-century  founda- 
tion, due  to  the  wealth  of  a  Lombard  Street  bookseller  named 
Thomas  Guy, — is  one  of  the  most  important.  This  Guy  was 
in  his  way  a  miser,  and  his  savings  were  vastly  increased  by 
dealings  in  South  Sea  stock, — showing  that  some  good,  at  any 
rate,  was  wrought  by  the  terrible  "  Bubble  "  that  ruined  so 
many  thousands.  Yet  the  hospital  narrowly  escaped  losing 
the  rich  man's  bequest.  He  was  on  the  point  of  marrying  his 
pretty  maid,  Sally,  when,  his  bride  offending  him  by  officious 
interference,  he  broke  off  the  marriage,  and  endowed  the 
present  hospital  with  his  great  wealth.  A  blackened  brass 
statue  of  the  founder  stands  in  the  courtyard  of  the  edifice. 

If  Chaucer,  with  his  ever  memorable  Canterbury  Pilgrims, 
did  much  to  immortalise  the  Southwark  of  mediaeval  times, 


134  THE  CHILD  OF  THE  MARSHALSEA  CHAP. 

Dickens,  the  child  of  a  later  era,  has  done  at  least  as  much 
for  the  South wark  of  his  day.  In  the  Borough  High  Street, 
close  to  the  site  of  the  demolished  Marshalsea  Prison, 
stands  St.  George's  Church,  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  fact 
that  Dickens  has  here  placed  the  marriage  of  his  heroine, 
"  Little  Dorrit,"  the  Child  of  the  Marshalsea.  This  was 
always  a  district  of  prisons ;  the  natural  sequence,  one  would 
think,  of  Southwark  merry-making.  Of  the  two  Marshalsea 
prisons  established  here  at  different  times,  the  earlier,  nearer 
to  London  Bridge,  was  abolished  in  1 849 ;  the  later,  so 
graphically  described  by  Dickens,  was  not  pulled  down  till 
1887,  after  having  been  let  for  forty  years  as  a  lodging  for 
tramps  and  vagabonds."  Relics  of  it  are  now  hard  to  find. 
Dickens,  who  knew  it  well  as  a  boy,  thus  describes  (in  the 
preface  to  Little  Dorrit)  his  search  for  it  in  later  life  : 

"  I  found  the  outer  front  courtyard  metamorphosed  into  a  butter  shop  ; 
and  I  then  almost  gave  up  every  brick  of  the  jail  for  lost.  Wandering, 
however,  down  a  certain  adjacent  '  Angel  Court,  leading  to  Bermondsey,' 
I  came  to  Marshalsea  Place,  the  houses  in  which  I  recognized,  not  only  as 
the  great  block  of  the  former  prison,  but  as  preserving  the  rooms  that  arose 
to  my  mind's  eye  when  I  became  Little  Dorrit's  biographer  ....  Whoever 
goes  into  Marshalsea  Place,  turning  out  of  Angel  Court,  leading  to 
Bermondsey,  will  find  his  feet  on  the  very  paving-stones  of  the  extinct 
Marshalsea  jail ;  will  see  its  narrow  yard  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  very 
little  altered  if  at  all,  except  that  the  walls  were  lowered  when  the  place 
got  free  ;  will  look  upon  the  rooms  in  which  the  debtors  lived  ;  will  stand 
among  the  crowding  ghosts  of  many  miserable  years." 

Dickens's  boyish  recollections  of  the  ancient  debtors  prison 
have,  as  was  perhaps  natural,  sometimes  more  than  a  tinge  of 
bitterness  ;  here  he  passed  to  and  fro  during  wretched  childish 
years,  between  the  daily  drudgery  of  covering  blacking  pots  at 
"  Murdstone  and  Grinby's,"  down  by  Hungerford  Stairs.  More 
wretched,  indeed,  far,  than  any  modern  Borough  waif,  was 
this  neglected  and  sensitive  child  of  genius.  The  intense  torture 
of  his  degradation  (as  he  thought  it)  was  never  wholly  for- 
gotten. In  this  connection  he  tells  (in  Forster's  Life)  a  pathetic 


vi  DICKENS'S  LONDON  TYPES  135 

little  story.  No  boy  at  the  blacking  office,  it  seems,  knew 
where  or  how  he  lived  ;  and  once,  being  taken  ill  there,  and 
helped  towards  home  by  a  kindly  fellow-worker,  the  child 
Dickens  said  good-bye  to  his  friend  by  Southwark  Bridge : 

"  I  was  too  proud"  (he  says)  "  to  let  him  know  about  the  prison  ;  and 
after  making  several  efforts  to  get  rid  of  him,  to  all  of  which  Bob  Fagin  in 
his  goodness  was  deaf,  shook  hands  with  him  on  the  steps  of  a  house  near 
Southwark-bridge  on  the  Surrey  side,  making  believe  that  I  lived  there. 
As  a  finishing  piece  of  reality  in  case  of  his  looking  back,  I  knocked  at  the 
door,  I  recollect,  and  asked,  when  the  woman  opened  it,  if  that  was  Mr. 
Robert  Fagin's  house." 

While  the  boy  suffered  thus  acutely,  his  father  lived  on  in  a 
Micawberish  way  at  the  Marshalsea,  being  merely  of  the  amiable, 
shiftless,  idle  genus  that  drags  its  family  down.  For  the  rest, 
they  did  well  enough  at  the  Marshalsea  :  "  The  family,"  the  son 
wrote,  "  lived  more  comfortably  in  prison  than  they  had  done 
for  a  long  time  out  of  it.  They  were  waited  on  still  by  the 
maid-of-all-work  from  Bayham  Street,  the  orphan  girl  from 
Chatham  workhouse,  from  whose  sharp  little  worldly,  yet 
also  kindly,  ways  I  took  my  first  impressions  of  the  "  Mar- 
chioness "  in  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop. 

Yet  Destiny  works  in  strange  and  devious  ways,  and  all  the 
while,  if  he  had  only  known  it,  the  Fates  were  conspiring  for 
Charles  Dickens's  good.  It  was  the  father's  misfortunes  that 
really  taught  the  boy  all  he  needed  to  learn.  Here,  amid  the 
unsavoury  purlieus  of  the  prison,  he  unconsciously  studied  all 
the  types  and  localities  of  which  he  was  to  make  such  wonderful 
use  in  after-life.  The  Marshalsea  and  its  ways  ;  Lant  Street 
and  Bob  Sawyer ;  "  Tip,"  "  of  the  prison  prisonous,  and  of  the 
streets  streety  "  ;  Sam  Weller  at  the  "  White  Hart ;  "  Nancy  at 
London  Bridge  Steps  ;  Sikes  and  Folly  Ditch  ;  with  a  hundred 
others, — were,  more  or  less,  to  be  the  outcome  of  that  time. 

The  glamour  of  a  romantic  past,  the  spirit  of  Chaucer  and 
of  Shakespeare,  may  still  attach  to  Southwark  ;  the  playhouses 
and  gaieties  of  Elizabeth's  time  may  yet  leave  some  faint  record 


136  THE  CITY'S  CHRONICLER  CH.  vi 

there ;  but  it  is,  after  all,  by  another  of  Fate's  strange  ironies, 
the  Child  of  the  Marshalsea,  the  boy  brought  up  in  wretched- 
ness and  squalor,  who  has  glorified  by  his  genius  the  place,  the 
whole  district,  where  he  so  suffered  in  early  youth.  Other  and 
greater  men  have  told  London's  history  in  the  past ;  but 
Dickens,  whose  grave  is  still  faithfully  tended  in  Westminster 
Abbey  while  those  of  the  mightier  dead  are  long  forgotten, 
Dickens,  who  cared  everything  for  the  lower,  warmer  phases  of 
humanity ;  Dickens,  to  whom  every  grimy  London  stone  was 
dear,  and  every  dirty  cockney  child  a  creature  of  infinite 
possibilities ;  Dickens,  whose  name  will  be  ever  dear  to  the 
faithful  Londoner  ;  is  the  modern  chronicler  of  the  great  city. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  INNS  OF  COURT 

"The  perplexed  and  troublous  valley  of  the  shadow  of  the  law." — 
Dickens. 

"  those  bricky  towers, 

The  which  on  Thames'  broad  aged  back  doe  ride, 
Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their  bowers, 
There  whilom  wont  the  Templar  knights  to  bide, 
Till  they  decayed  through  pride." — Spenser. 

AMONG  the  by-ways  that  open  suddenly  out  of  the  highways 
of  London,  are  there  any  more  attractive  than  the  Inns  of 
Court  ?  which,  in  an  almost  startling  manner,  bring  into  the 
whirl  of  Holborn,  and  the  din  of  Fleet  Street,  something  of  the 
charm  of  an  older  and  more  peaceful  world.  No  parts  of 
London  are  more  delightful,  and  few  call  up  more  interesting 
historic  associations.  Picturesque  and  charming  old  enclosures, 
— full  of  that  mysterious  and  intangible  "  romance  of  London  " 
that  appealed  so  strongly  to  writers  such  as  Lamb,  Dickens, 
and  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, — the  Inns  of  Court  have  in  their  time 
sheltered  many  great  men.  How  strange  and  how  unexpected, 
in  the  very  heart  of  busy  London,  are  these  quiet  old-world  quad- 
rangles, of  calm,  collegiate  aspect,  of  infinite  peace ;  a  peace 
that  seems  perhaps  more  intense  in  contrast  with  the  outside, 
just  as  the  London  "  close  "  of  greenery  seems  all  the  greener 
for  its  being  set  amid  the  surrounding  grime,  shining  "  like  a 
star  in  blackest  night."  Historic  houses,  indeed,  in  every  sense, 


138  "THE  'ORRORS"  CHAP. 

are  these  old  Inns,  with  their  worm-eaten  wooden  staircases, 
worn  into  holes  by  the  passage  of  countless  feet ;  their  panelled 
walls  inscribed  with  many  names  ;  their  floors  often  crazy  and 
slanting  as  the  decks  of  a  ship  in  mid-ocean.  Even  the  so- 
called  "  laundresses  "  who  act  as  caretakers  and  servants  in 
these  establishments,  seem  as  though  they  belonged  to  former 
centuries,  and  were,  in  a  manner,  impervious  to  the  flight  of  time. 
Many  have  been  the  noted  residents  in  the  Inns  ;  the  most  noted, 
perhaps,  of  those  in  the  Temple  are  Fielding,  Charles  Lamb, 
and  the  poet  Cowper  ;  Dr.  Johnson  lived  once  in  Staple  Inn, 
writing  Rasselas  there  "  in  the  evenings  of  a  week,"  to 
defray  his  mother's  funeral  expenses.  Surely,  if  ghosts  ever 
walk,  they  must  walk  in  these  historic  abodes.  It  was  my  lot 
lately  to  search  for  rooms  in  one  of  the  Inns  (I  will  not  invidi- 
ously specify  which).  The  rooms  were  romantic  enough,  at  a 
cursory  glance ;  further  investigations  revealed,  I  regret  to  say, 
the  fact  that  romance  was  depressingly  dark,  as  well  as  unduly 
favourable  to  rats,  mice,  and  the  unholy  black  beetle ;  to  say 
nothing  of  a  general  and  indescribable  musty  smell. 

"How  long  have  these  rooms  been  vacant?"  I  inquired, 
with  some  faint  show  of  cheerfulness,  of  the  frowsy  "laundress," 
a  Dickensy  lady  with  an  appalling  squint  and  a  husky  voice 
suggestive  of  the  bottle. 

"  W'y,  not  to  say  long,  'm.  On'y  a  year  come  nex'  Wensday. 
Though  not  to  deceive  you  'm,  the  larst  gempleman  as  lived 
'ere,  'e  give  the  place  a  bad  name." 

"  What  did  he  do  ?  "  I  inquired,  startled. 

"  W'y,  'e  had  the  'errors  dreadful ;  'e  did  away  with  'isself ; 
thafs  where  it  is  "  (with  increased  huskiness). 

I  looked  tremblingly  at  the  panelled  walls,  the  blackened 
ceiling,  the  faded  carpet.  Was  it  fancy,  or  did  I  see  a  darker 
patch  in  the  threadbare  web,  and  the  shadow  of  a  dusky 
Roman  pointing  from  the  ceiling  (as  in  Dickens's  murder  of 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn)  threateningly  at  that  darker  stain  ?  "  'Orrors  "  ! 
I  thought ;  and  no  wonder  !  Romance,  rats,  and  old  panelling 


vii  CHARLES  LAMB  139 

are,  no  doubt,  beautiful  in  their  way;  but  hardly  suitable  to 
prosaic,  everyday  life. 

It  is,  perhaps,  in  these  old  Inns,  that,  more  than  anywhere 
else  in  London,  the  past  is  linked  with  the  present.  Much 
the  same  did  they  look,  their  red  brick  perhaps  a  trifle  less 
charmingly  darkened  by  time,  in  the  days  when  fair  ladies 
and  gallant  gentlemen  walked  in  their  green  plots,  the  ladies 
in  the  quaint  clinging  dresses  of  the  Georgian  era,  the 
gentlemen  in  the  gay  lace  ruffles  and  knee-breeches  of  that 
picturesque  period  in  dress.  If  London  stones  could  speak, 
what  stories  could  they  tell !  The  old  elm  trees,  planted  by 
Bacon  (Lord  Verulam)  that  shade  so  charmingly  the  cool 
green  sward  of  Gray's  Inn,  were  comparatively  youthful  when 
Mr.  Pepys  walked  with  his  lady-wife  in  that  historic  enclosure 
"  to  observe  the  fashions  of  the  ladies,  because  of  my  wife 
making  some  clothes."  Time  enough,  surely,  for  the  trees  to 
have  developed  a  quite  Wordsworthian  seriousness  !  There 
were  many  rooks  in  these  gardens  ;  but  these  have  lately  dis- 
appeared, owing,  thinks  Mr.  Hare,  "  to  the  erection  of  a  cor- 
rugated iron  building  near  them  some  years  ago  "  !  Possibly 
Mr.  Hare  credits  the  rooks  with  an  aesthetic  feeling  for  beauty  ! 

Charles  Lamb,  that  "  small,  spare  man  in  black," — who,  with 
his  saddest  of  life-histories,  his  patient  devotion  and  fortitude, 
ill  deserved  Carlyle's  crude  vituperation, — was  a  great  devotee 
of  the  Inns,  and  especially  of  the  Temple,  his  birthplace.  It 
was  in  Little  Queen  Street,  off  Holborn,  that  the  early  tragedy 
happened  that  saddened  all  his  life ;  the  murder  of  his  mother 
by  the  hand  of  his  dearly-loved  sister,  in  a  fit  of  insanity. 
After  this  terrible  occurrence,  the  brother  took  his  sister  Mary 
into  his  charge,  never  after  to  part  from  her,  except  only  for 
her  occasional  necessary  periods  of  restraint  in  an  asylum.  In 
Colebrook  Row,  Islington,  where  Lamb  retired  on  his  emanci- 
pation from  the  India  Office,  was  the  last  abode  of  this 
devoted  couple ;  and  here  occurred  the  pathetic  incident 
recorded  by  a  friend,  that  of  the  brother  and  sister  walking 


140     "TO  OBSERVE  THE  FASHIONS  OF  THE  LADIES  "    CHAP. 

across  the  fields  towards  the  safety  of  the  neighbouring  asylum, 
hand-in-hand,  like  two  children,  and  weeping  bitterly. 

The  Temple,  so  beloved  of  Charles  Lamb,  is  the  most  widely 


known  of  all  the  Inns  ;  being  the  largest,  and  in  some  ways  the 
most  attractive.  Its  garden-lawns  slope  gently  and  pleasantly 
towards  the  river ;  and  its  quaint,  time-honoured,  and  beautiful 


vii  THE  TEMPLE 


141 


old  squares  have  the  added  charm  of  a  long  and  romantic 
history.  For  here  once  was  the  stronghold  of  the  Knights 
Templars,  that  powerful  fraternity,  so  masterful  in  the  pictur- 
esque Middle  Ages  ;  and,  though  the  only  substantial  relic  of 
them  that  yet  exists  here  is  the  old  Temple  Church,  their 
memory  still  lingers  about  these  courts  and  gateways,  adorned 
with  their  arms.  And  Charles  Lamb, — the  real  child  of  the 
Temple, — has,  though  born  at  a  later  time,  invested  the  place 
with  a  double  charm.  Born  in  1775,  in  Crown  Office  Row,  his 
father  servant  to  a  Bencher  of  the  Inner  Temple,  the  boy,  from 
his  earliest  years,  breathed  in  the  poetry  and  romance  of  his 
surroundings.  Has  not  his  touching  description  of  a  childhood 
spent  here  almost  the  dignity  of  a  classic  ? 

"I  was  born"  (he  says),  "and  passed  the  first  seven  years  of  my  life, 
in  the  Temple.  Its  church,  its  halls,  its  gardens,  its  fountain,  its  river,  I 
had  almost  said — for  in  those  young  years,  what  was  this  king  of  rivers  to 
me  but  a  stream  that  watered  our  pleasant  places? — these  are  my  oldest  re- 
collections ....  What  an  antique  air  had  the  now  almost  effaced  sun-dials, 
with  their  moral  inscriptions,  seeming  coevals  with  that  Time  which  they 
measured,  and  to  take  their  revelations  of  its  flight  immediately  from 
heaven,  holding  correspondence  with  the  fountain  of  light  !  How  would  the 
dark  line  steal  imperceptibly  on,  watched  by  the  eye  of  childhood,  eager  to 
detect  its  movement,  never  catched,  nice  as  an  evanescent  cloud,  or  the 
first  arrests  of  sleep  ! 

"  Ah,  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 

Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived  ! " 

In  the  Temple  Gardens,  which,  mercifully  enough,  have  never 
yet  been  threatened  with  being  built  over,  the  famous  annual 
flower-shows  are  held.  To  these  gardens,  where  the  Red  Cross 
Knights  walked  at  eve,  where  the  gallants  of  Tudor  and  Stuart 
times  paraded  their  powder  and  ruffles,  are  now  yearly  brought 
all  the  English  flowers  that  skill  can  grow.  In  May  and  June,  the 
wide  green  expanse  becomes  a  bower  of  roses  ;  in  late  autumn 
it  is  the  chrysanthemums,  the  special  flowers  of  the  Temple, 
that  have  their  turn.  Chrysanthemums  are  London's  own 
flowers,  and  care  little  for  soot ;  as  for  the  roses,  they  are  brought 


142  "THE  RED  ROSE  AND  THE  WHITE"  CHAP. 

hither  in  masses  from  the  country,  "  to  make  a  London  holiday." 
And,  surely,  never  were  seen  such  blooms  as  at  these  annual 
rose-shows  !  A  Heliogabalus  would  indeed  be  in  his  glory. 
Every  year  new  flowers,  new  combinations  of  colour,  of  shape 
are  invented  ;  and  garden-lovers  congregate,  compare,  and  copy. 
Roses  will  not  now  deign  to  grow  in  London  soot  and  smoke ; 
yet  the  Temple  Gardens  once  were  famed  for  their  own  roses, 
and  here,  where  now  the  flower-shows  are  held,  once  grew, 
according  to  Shakespeare,  in  deadly  rivalry,  the  fatal  white  and 
red  roses  of  York  and  Lancaster.  He  makes  Warwick  say,  in 

King  Henry  VJ  : 

"  This  brawl  to-day, 

Grown  to  this  faction  in  the  Temple  Garden, 
Shall  send,  between  the  red  rose  and  the  white, 
A  thousand  souls  to  death  and  deadly  night." 

There  are  many  sun-dials  in  the  Temple  Gardens,  a  fact 
which  seems  to  suggest  that  the  average  amount  of  sunshine 
yearly  registered  in  the  City  was  considerably  greater  in  the  old 
days,  when,  also,  possibly,  for  belated  roysterers  too  often 

' '  The  night  was  senescent, 
And  star- dials  pointed  to  morn, 
And  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn," 

as  in  Poe's  mystic  poem.  That  occasion,  for  instance,  com- 
memorated in  the  Quarterly  Review  for  1836,  when,  on  some 
festival  held  at  the  Inner  Temple,  less  than  seventy  students 
consumed  among  them  thirty-six  quarts  of  richly-flavoured 
"  sack,"  a  potent  beverage,  only  supposed  to  be  "  sipped  "  once 
by  each ! 

The  mottoes  on  the  Temple  sun-dials  are  varied  and  curious. 
"  Pereunt  et  imputantur,"  is  inscribed  on  one  in  Temple  Lane  ; 
in  Brick  Court  it  is  "  Time  and  Tide  tarry  for  no  man  "  ;  in 
Essex  Court,  "  Vestigia  nulla  retrorsum  "  ;  and  opposite  Middle 
Temple  Hall,  "  Discite  justitiam  moniti." 

The  Middle  Temple,  divided  from  the  Inner  Temple  by 
Middle  Temple  Lane,  is  the  more  picturesque  of  the  two  Inns. 


viz  DICKENS  AND  "FOUNTAIN  COURT"  143 

Among  its  labyrinthine  courts  and  closes,  the  most  charming  is 
"  Fountain  Court,"  well  known  to  lovers  of  Dickens.  The  great 
writer  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  place ;  where  in  London, 
indeed,  has  he  not  done  so  ?  He  is,  par  excellence,  the 
novelist  of  the  city  in  all  its  aspects,  human,  topographical, 
artistic,  historical.  In  a  few  lines,  with  magic  touch,  he  gives 
you  a  lasting  impression.  He  makes  Ruth  Pinch  come  to  meet 
her  brother  in  this  court : 

"  There  was  a  little  plot  between  them,  that  Tom  should  always  come 
out  of  the  Temple  by  one  way ;  and  that  was,  past  the  fountain. 
Coming  through  Fountain  Court,  he  was  just  to  glance  down  the  steps  lead- 
ing into  Garden  Court,  and  to  look  once  all  round  him  ;  and  if  Ruth  had 
come  to  meet  him,  then  he  would  see  her  ;  .  .  .  .  coming  briskly  up,  with 
the  best  little  laugh  upon  her  face  that  ever  played  in  opposition  to  the 
fountain,  and  beat  it  all  to  nothing.  .  .  .  The  Temple  fountain  might  have 
leaped  up  twenty  feet  to  greet  the  spring  of  hopeful  maidenhood,  that  in  her 
person  stole  on,  sparkling,  through  the  dry  and  dusty  channels  of  the  Lav/  ; 
the  chirping  sparrows,  bred  in  Temple  chinks  and  crannies,  might  have 
held  their  peace  to  listen  to  imaginary  skylarks,  as  so  fresh  a  little  creature 


Then,  when  the  lover,  John  Westlock,  comes  one  day : 

"  Merrily  the  fountain  leaped  and  danced,  and  merrily  the  smiling 
dimples  twinkled  and  expanded  more  and  more,  until  phey  broke  into  a 
laugh  against  the  fountain's  rim  and  vanished." 

In  this  court,  too,  is  Middle  Temple  Hall,  a  fine  Elizabethan 
edifice  of  1572,  with  a  handsome  oak  ceiling,  its  windows 
emblazoned  with  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  Templar  Knights. 
This  Hall  was  already  in  Tudor  times  famous  for  its  feasts, 
masques,  revelries ;  here  Shakespeare's  Twelfth  Night  was 
performed  in  1601,  before  the  queen  and  her  splendid  court ; 
"  the  only  locality  remaining  where  a  play  of  Shakespeare's  was 
listened  to  by  his  contemporaries."  Even  in  winter  Fountain 
Court  is  pretty,  and  its  ivied  trellises  and  arches  are  well  kept 
and  tended ;  a  lovely  view,  too,  may  be  enjoyed  from  it,  down 
over  the  verdant  grass  slopes  of  "  Garden  Court  "  towards  the 
silvery  river  far  below.  Lucky,  one  thinks,  are  those  fortunate 


H4  MIDDLE-TEMPLE-LANE  CHAP. 

beings  who  have  "  chambers "  in  Garden  Court !  poetically 
named,  and  the  reality  still  more  charming  than  the  name  ! 
More  ornate  and  less  attractive,  though  delightfully  placed,  are 
the  modern  buildings  of  "  Temple  Gardens." 

Bits  of  old  London,  unchanged  for  centuries,  crop  up 
continually  in  the  Temple  precincts,  and  recall  the  time  when 
this  was  a  city  of  timbered  houses  of  tortuous,  overhanging, 
insanitary  alleys  and  lanes,  easily  burned,  almost  impossible 
indeed  to  save  when  once  threatened  by  tire.  Small  wonder, 
indeed,  that  the  great  fire  of  1666  destroyed  so  much  of  the 
Temple !  Middle-Temple-Lane,  narrow,  crooked,  dark,  is  one 
of  these  relics  of  the  past.  Here  are  some  picturesque  old 
houses  of  lath  and  plaster,  with  overhanging  upper  floors,  and 
shops  beneath  stuffed  with  law  stationery  and  requirements ; 
the  houses  somewhat  crumbling  and  dilapidated,  and  "with 
an  air,"  like  Krook's  shop  in  Bleak  House,  "  of  being*]' n  a 
legal  neighbourhood,  and  of  being,  as  it  were  a  dirty  hanger-on 
and  disowned  relation  of  the  law."  Every  now  and  then,  about 
the  Temple,  in  odd  and  unexpected  nooks  and  corners,  you  come 
upon  the  arms  of  the  Knights  Templars ;  in  the  Middle 
Temple  it  is  the  Lamb  bearing  the  banner  of  Innocence,  and 
the  red  cross,  the  original  badge  of  the  order ;  in  the  Inner 
Temple, — the  winged  Pegasus, — with  the  motto,  "  Volat  ad  astra 
virtus."  This  winged  horse  has  a  curious  history ;  for,  when 
the  horse  was  originally  chosen  as  an  emblem,  he  had  no 
wings,  but  was  ridden  by  two  men  at  once  to  indicate  the  self- 
chosen  poverty  of  the  brotherhood ;  in  lapse  of  years  the 
figures  of  the  men  became  worn  and  abraded,  and  when 
restored  were  mistaken  for  wings  ! 

Middle-Temple-Lane  is  entered  from  Fleet-Street,  just 
beyond  the  Temple-Bar  Griffin  and  the  imposing  mass  of  the 
New  Gothic  Law-Courts,  by  a  dull  red-brick  gateway,  erected 
by  Wren  in  1684  ;  and  the  Inner  Temple  by  an  archway  under  a 
hairdresser's  shop,  which  shop  is  inscribed  somewhat  romantic- 
ally as  "the  palace  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey." 


vii  THE  TEMPLE  CHURCH  145 

(As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  built  in  James  I.'s  time,  and 
belonged  to  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales  ;  it  subsequently  became 
"  Nando's  Coffee-House.")  These  picturesque,  unassuming- 
archways  bear  the  special  arms  of  each  Inn,  and  here,  by  the 
winged  horse,  a  wit  once  wrote  the  following  "  pasquinade  :  " 

"  As  by  the  Templar's  hold  you  go, 

The  horse  and  lamb  displayed 
In  emblematic  figures  show 
The  merits  of  their  trade. 

"  The  clients  may  infer  from  thence 

^How  just  is  their  profession  : 
The  lamb  sets  forth  their  innocence, 
The  horse  their  expedition." 

But  the  main  interest  of  the  Temple  lies  in  its  ancient  church, 
St.  Mary's,  where  in  the  Middle  Ages  the  Knights  Templars 
worshipped  in  their  strength,  and  where  their  effigies,  stiff  and 
mailed  and  cross-legged,  as  befits  returned  crusaders,  lie  until 
the  judgment  day.  The  soldier-monks  are  gone,  their  place 
knows  them  no  more ;  yet,  like  their  more  peaceful  brethren 
and  neighbours,  the  Carthusians,  their  spirit  still  inspires  their 
ancient  haunts.  The  Temple  Church,  begun  in  1185,  was  one 
of  the  four  round  churches  built  in  England  in  imitation  of 
the  Round  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  at  Jerusalem,  after 
the  Templars'  return  from  the  first  and  second  crusades  ; 
mercifully  escaping  the  Great  Fire,  it  has  not  entirely  escaped 
the  hardly  less  dangerous  ravages  of  the  "  restorer."  Through 
a  fine  Norman  arch,  under  the  western  porch,  the  Round 
Church  of  1185  is  entered.  In  architecture  it  is  Norman,  with 
a  leaning  to  the  Transition  style,  and  very  rich  in  decoration. 
Hence,  through  groups  of  Purbeck  marble  columns,  you  look 
into  the  choir,  a  later  addition  of  1240,  in  the  Early  English 
style,  with  lancet-headed  windowsva^nd  a  groined  roof.  "  These 
two  churches,"  says  Mr.  Hare,  "  built  at  a  distance  of  only 
fifty  five  years  fronj  each-other,  form  one  of  the  most  interesting 

I, 


i46  THE  TEMPLARS'  MONUMENTS  CHAP. 

examples  we  possess  of  the  transition  from  Norman  to  Early 
English  architecture." 

In  the  Round  Church  are  nine  monuments  of  Templars,  of 
the  1 2th  and  i3th  centuries,  sculptured  out  of  freestone, 
recumbent,  with  crossed  legs,  and  in  complete  mail,  except  one, 
who  wears  a  monk's  cowl.  They  are  probably  the  "  eight 
images  of  armed  knights  "  mentioned  by  Stow  in  1598  :  some 
few  are  thought  to  be  identified.  Strange,  unearthly  objects  ! 
relics  of  a  bygone  order  and  a  vanished  faith, — silent  witnesses 
of  centuries'  changes, — figures  ghostly  in  the  twilight  of  a 
London  winter's  day : — effigies  of  warriors,  faithful  in  the  life 
and  unto  the  death  that  they  knew,  recalling  Spenser's  lines : 

"  And  on  his  breast  a  bloudie  cross  he  bore, 
The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 

For  whose  sweet  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore, 
And  dead,  as  living,  ever  Him  adored. 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  ever  scored, 

For  sovereign  hope  which  in  his  help  he  had." 

Records  of  the  severity  of  the  Order  are  not  wanting.  Here, 
opening  upon  the  stairs  leading  to  the  triforium,  is  the  "peni- 
tential cell "  (of  such  painful  abbreviation  that  the  prisoner 
could  neither  stand  nor  lie  in  it),  with  slits  towards  the  church 
so  that  mass  might  still  be  heard.  Here  the  unhappy  Walter 
le  Bacheler,  Grand  Preceptor  of  Ireland, — for  disobedience  to 
the  all-powerful  Master, — was  starved  to  death,  and  hence  also, 
most  likely,  culprits  were  dragged  forth  naked  to  be  flogged 
publicly  before  the  altar.  Priests,  in  the  robust  Middle  Ages, 
did  not  always  err  on  the  side  of  mercy  or  humanity  ! 

The  preacher  at  the  Temple  Church  is  still  named  "  the 
Master,"  as  being  the  successor  of  the  Masters  of  the  Templars. 
Hooker  and  Sherlock  both  held  the  office,  and  now  Canon 
Ainger  is  the  most  modern  representative  of  the  "  Grand 
Master,"  that  dread  medieeval  potentate.  During  the  Protec- 
torate, however,  the  order  of  succession  must,  one  thinks,  have 
fallen  into  some  contempt ;  for  the  church  became  greatly 


vii  TEMPLE  BYWAYS  AND  ASSOCIATIONS  147 

dilapidated,  and  the  painted  ceilings  (according  to  the  usual 
Puritan  barbarism)  were  whitewashed,  though  the  effigies  them- 
selves mercifully  escaped  destruction.  Lawyers,  also,  used 
formerly  to  receive  their  clients  in  the  Round  Church  (as  it 
was  their  custom  to  do  at  the  pillars  in  St.  Paul's),  occupying 
their  special  posts  like  merchants  on  'Change.  And  thus,  that 
thorough  restoration  of  the  church  in  1839 — 42,  which  anti- 
quaries so  deplore,  was  no  doubt  very  necessary. 

Long  might  one  linger  over  the  Temple  and  its  many 
associations.  Even  the  names  of  its  mazy  courts  recall  old 
stories,  as  well  as  their  sometime  dwellers.  Johnson's  Buildings, 
where  the  old  Doctor  lived  at  one  time ;  Brick  Court,  where 
poor,  improvident  Goldsmith  lived,  and  died,  as  he  had  lived, 
in  debt  and  difficulties  :  Inner-Temple-Lane,  where  Charles 
Lamb  lodged,  and  wrote  :  "  The  rooms  are  delicious,  and 
Hare's  Court  trees  come  in  at  the  window,  so  that  it's  like 
living  in  a  garden."  Garden  Court  (now  rebuilt),  where 
Dickens's  "  Pip  "  lived  ;  "  Lamb  Court,"  with  the  shades  of 
Thackeray's  Warrington,  Pen,  and  Laura.  Tanfield  Court, 
less  pleasantly,  recalls  a  murder,  that  of  old  Mrs.  Duncomb, 
killed  by  a  Temple  laundress ;  the  murderess  sitting,  dressed 
in  scarlet,  to  Hogarth  for  her  portrait,  two  days  before  her 
execution.  Then  there  is  King's  Bench  Walk,  where  Sarah, 
Duchess  of  Marlbo rough,  came  as  client,  and  was  so  digusted 
at  finding  her  legal  adviser  absent  :  "  I  could  not  tell  who  she 
was,"  said  the  servant,  reporting  the  visit  to  her  master,  "  for 
she  would  not  tell  me  her  name,  but  she  swore  so  dreadfully 
that  I  am  sure  she  must  be  a  lady  of  quality." 

But  the  Temple  sundials  are  sternly  marking  the  time,  and 
we  must  tear  ourselves  away  from  the  historic  precincts.  The 
day  is  waning,  and  all  too  soon  Embankment  and  gardens, 
river  and  sky,  will  have  changed,  by  some  mysterious  alchemy, 
to  a  "  nocturne  "  of  silver  and  gold.  Let  us  hasten  back  into 
the  din  of  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand. 

Holywell  Street,  with  its  tempting  book-shops,  is  now  a 

L  2 


148       A  REGION  THREATENED  WITH  DEMOLITION      CHAP. 

thing  of  the  past ;  and,  for  the  constant  Londoner,  the  bearings 
of  the  Strand  world  have  changed  much  of  late.  But  Wych 
Street  still  remains,  and  behind  it  is  the  archway  into  New 
Inn,  a  quaint  and  forsaken  place,  resembling,  not  merely  a 
backwater,  but  a  stagnant  pool,  really  forgotten  by  the  busy 
tide  of  life  around  it.  New  Inn  lies  in  that  curious  and  de- 
batable region  between  the  Strand  and  the  district  of  Clare- 
market  ;  but  it  is  so  secluded  that  one  might  well  live  in 
London  all  one's  life  and  never  know  of  it.  There  is  a  certain 
not  unpicturesque  squalor  about  New  Inn  and  its  purlieus  ;  it 
has,  like  so  many  of  these  places,  a  pathetic  air  as  of  having 
seen  better  days.  Possibly,  New  Inn  sees  only  too  well  the 
fate  that  awaits  it,  in  the  towering  red-brick  offices  close  by, 
that  once  were  old  Clement's  Inn  !  "  Will  they  '  talk  of  mad 
Shallow  yet '  in  Clement's  Inn  ?  Alas  !  I  fear  that  the  dwellers 
in  the  new  mansions  will  read  little  of  the  old  traditions  of 
the  site  "  !  "  To  New  Inn,"  says  Seymour  (in  his  Summary 
of  London,  1735),  "are  pleasant  walks  and  gardens;"  and 
still  a  few  sickly  patches  of  grass  survive,  as  well  as  a  saddened 
greenhouse,  relic  of  a  happier  time  !  Yet  the  "  dusty  purlieus 
of  the  Law  "  still,  in  spite  of  the  builder,  keep  up,  in  a  manner, 
their  gardening  traditions.  Even  the  massive  new  "  Record 
Office  "  does  not  disdain  its  little  strip  of  garden,  and  makes 
praiseworthy  attempts  to  grow  turf  and  ground-ivy  borders,  to 
refresh  the  wanderer  down  Chancery  Lane. 

In  and  about  Chancery  Lane  are  several  more  of  these  small 
Inns,  both  past  and  present.  "  Symond's  Inn,"  so  sympa- 
thetically described  by  Dickens  in  Bleak  House,  as  the  lair 
of  Mr.  Vholes,  the  grasping  Chancery  lawyer,  is  typical  of 
many  of  these  rusty  and  decaying  nests.  Symond's  Inn,  in- 
deed, no  longer  exists.  "  Chichester  Rents,"  west  of  Chancery 
Lane,  marks  its  forgotten  site ;  but  the  portrait, — slightly 
caricatured,  like  all  Dickens's  sketches, — is  very  suggestive  : 

"The  name  of  MR.  VHOLES,  preceded  by  the  legend  GROUND 
FLOOR,  is  inscribed  upon  a  doorpost  in  Symond's  Inn,  Chancery  Lane  :  a 


vii  "  BLEAK  HOUSE  "  AND  MR.  VHOLES  149 

little,  pale,  wall-eyed,  woebegone  inn,  like  a  large  dust-bin  of  two  com- 
partments and  a  sifter.  It  looks  as  if  Symond  were  a  sparing  man  in  his 
day,  and  constructed  his  inn  of  old  building  materials,  which  took  kindly 
to  the  dry  rot  and  to  dirt  and  all  things  decaying  and  dismal,  and  per- 
petuated Symond's  memory  with  congenial  shabbiness.  Quartered  in  this 
dingy  hatchment  commemorative  of  Symond,  are  the  legal  bearings  of 
Mr.  Vholes.  .  .  .  Mr.  Vholes's  office,  in  disposition  retiring  and  in 
situation  retired,  is  squeezed  up  in  a  corner,  and  blinks  at  a  dead  wall. 
Three  feet  of  knotty-floored  dark  passage  bring  the  client  to  Mr.  Vholes's 
jet-black  door,  in  an  angle  profoundly  dark  on  the  brightest  midsummer 
morning,  and  encumbered  by  a  black  bulkhead  of  cellarage  staircase, 
against  which  belated  civilians  generally  strike  their  brows.  Mr.  Vholes's 
chambers  are  on  so  small  a  scale,  that  one  clerk  can  open  the  door  without 
getting  off  his  stool  ;  while  the  other,  who  elbows  him  at  the  same  desk, 
has  equal  facilities  for  poking  the  fire.  A  smell  as  of  unwholesome  sheep, 
blending  with  the  smell  of  must  and  dust,  is  referable  to  the  nightly  (and 
often  daily)  consumption  of  mutton  fat  in  candles,  and  to  the  fretting  of 
parchment  forms  and  skins  in  greasy  drawers.  The  atmosphere  is  other- 
wise stale  and  close.  The  place  was  last  painted  or  whitewashed  beyond 
the  memory  of  man,  and  the  two  chimneys  smoke,  and  there  is  a  loose 
outer  surface  of  soot  everywhere,  and  the  dull,  cracked  windows  in  their 
heavy  frames  have  but  one  piece  of  character  in  them,  which  is  a  determina- 
tion to  be  always  dirty,  and  always  shut,  unless  coerced." 

Indeed,  the  whole  region  of  the  law,  in  its  by-ways,  and 
smaller  Inns,  is  altogether  suggestive  of  Bleak  House.  Dickens, 
a  kind  of  Sam  Weller  himself  in  his  knowledge  of  London, 
knew  all  the  Inns  well,  living  in  several  of  them.  He  is  a 
faithful  chronicler,  with  this  reservation,  that  he  has  no  eye  for 
the  picturesque  interest,  but  is  all  eye  for  the  human.  Were 
these  places  dirtier  in  Dickens's  time?  That  can  hardly  be. 
Why,  one  reflects,  is  there  a  kind  of  tradition  in  such  things  ? 
even  as  regards  the  eternal  cats  and  the  equally  eternal 
"  laundresses "  ?  (called  so,  presumably,  because  they  never 
seem  to  wash  !)  Why  are  the  window  panes,  apparently,  never, 
never,  cleaned  ?  Has  never  any  one  come  here  with  a  love 
of  cleanliness  for  its  own  sake,  or  with  a  yearning  for  clean 
windows,  to  these  Inns  ? 

See,  for  instance,  the  corner  of  old  Serjeants'  Inn,  where  it 


150  CLIFFORD'S  INN  CHAP. 

joins  Clifford's  Inn  !  It  positively  caricatures  even  Dickens. 
Black,  suggestively  gruesome  as  a  picture  by  Hogarth  ;  yet, 
amid  all  its  dirt,  still  picturesque  ;  everywhere  neglect,  rust, 
grime ;  windows  suggestive  of  anything  but  light,  broken  and 
stuffed  with  dirty  paper ;  no  sign  of  life  (it  being  Saturday 
afternoon),  but  one  old  half-starved  tabby  cat,  moved  out  of  her 
wonted  apathy  by  hearing  the  welcome  voice  of  the  cats'-meat 
boy  in  neighbouring  Chancery  Lane !  Is  she  the  aged  pen- 
sioner of  some  departed  inhabitant,  and  does  she,  perchance, 
hope  to  steal,  unperceived,  some  scrap  from  that  unsavoury 
basket  ?  As  she  slinks  along  the  outer  railings  of  the  Clifford's 
Inn  enclosure,  and  across  the  irregular  cobble-stones  of  the 
court,  one  notices  that  what  is  by  courtesy  termed  a  "  garden  " 
is  merely  a  cat  walk.  It  is  a  railed-in  garden  of  desolation,  its 
turf  long  ago  forgotten,  its  gravel-paths  even  obliterated,  a  dingy 
strip  of  earth  under  a  few  mangy  trees.  Surely,  nobody  can 
have  entered  that  rusty  gate  for  at  least  a  hundred  years  !  It 
might  be  the  garden  of  the  "  Sleeping  Beauty,"  or  at  least  a 
London  edition  of  that  lady.  Poor,  deserted  closes  !  bits  of 
vanishing  London  !  The  tide  of  progress  will  remove  you 
altogether  ere  long,  and  build  huge  blocks  of  clean,  if  un- 
romantic,  "Chicago"  edifices  in  your  place.  Yet,  their  dirt 
and  desolation  notwithstanding,  can  we  not  almost  find  it  in 
our  hearts  to  regret  these  London  byways  of  a  past  age  ? 

Perhaps  Clifford's  Inn  may  yet  maintain  some  transmitted 
gloom  from  the  fact  that  here  used  to  live  the  six  attorneys  of  the 
Marshalsea  Court,  "  which  rendered,"  says  a  chronicler,  "  this 
little  spot  the  fountain-head  of  more  misery  than  any  whole 
county  in  England."  A  grimy  archway,  piercing  the  buildings 
of  Clifford's  Inn,  and  adorned  (?)  by  a  ramshackle  hanging  lamp, 
leads  through  another  tiny  courtyard  to  the  adjoining  Fleet 
Street.  In  such  crowded  city  byways,  "  businesses,"  and 
things,  and  people,  are  often  in  the  strangest  juxtaposition.  It 
seems  as  if  every  possible  trade  and  profession  had  made  up  its 
mind  to  live,  in  deadly  rivalry,  within  the  same  few  cubic  feet 


vii  STRANGE  CONTRASTS  151 

of  mother  earth.  Here,  for  instance,  a  smart  kitchen,  well- 
appointed,  with  shining  pots  and  pans,  looks  straight  into  the 
windows  of  a  dirty  law- stationer's ;  there,  a  printing-press 
rumbles,  cheek-by-jowl  with  a  Fleet  Street  tea-shop  ;  here  a 
theatre  stage-door  ogles,  at  a  convenient  distance,  the  in- 
viting back  entrance  of  a  pawnshop  (both  of  them  discreetly 
placed  in  a  retiring  side  alley)  ;  and  there,  the  much  populated 
"  model "  looks  across,  somewhat  yearningly,  to  some  cat- 
ridden  and  rusty  desolation,  that  has  got,  somehow  or  other, 
"  into  Chancery,"  or  some  such  equivalent  for  oblivion  and 
decay.  And,  between  the  Fleet  Street  entrance  to  Clifford's 
Inn  and  Chancery  Lane,  rises,  in  strangest  medley  of  all,  the 
blackened  height  of  St.  Dunstan's  in-the  West,  a  rebuilding  of 
1831,  by  J.  Shaw,  on  an  ancient  site.  Its  tall  tower  is  effective, 
but  the  body  of  the  church  has  a  somewhat  abbreviated  air, 
being  tightly  sandwiched  in  between  the  new  buildings  of  "  Law 
Life  Assurance  "  on  one  side,  and  the  Dundee  Advertiser,  &:c., 
on  the  other. 

The  two  famous  wooden  giants  on  the  old  church  of  St. 
Dunstan's,  that  used  to  strike  the  hours,  are  now  removed  to  a 
villa  in  Regent's  Park. 

Between  Chancery  Lane  and  Holborn,  many  important 
rebuild! ngs  and  extensions  have  been  made  of  recent  years  ; 
imposing  new  edifices  have  been  raised,  and,  in  some  places, 
building,  with  the  obliteration  of  old  landmarks,  is  still  going  on, 
so  that  those  who  knew  it  in  old  days  would  hardly  now 
recognise  the  locality.  A  new  Record  Office,  palatial  and 
imposing,  in  the  Tudor  style,  now  extends  from  Chancery  Lane 
across  to  Fetter  Lane,  covering  what  used  to  be  Rolls  Yard ; 
and  the  old  Rolls  Chapel  is  now  incorporated  in  the  newer 
building.  In  this  massive  structure,  this  fire-proof  fortress,  are 
kept  all  the  documentary  treasures  of  the  kingdom,  beginning 
with  the  famous  "  Domesday  Book,"  of  the  Conqueror's  time. 
The  Records  and  State  Archives  of  England,  so  long  neglected, 
have  at  length  found  a  suitable  home. 


152 


LINCOLN'S  INN 


CHAP. 


Lincoln's  Inn,  however,  is  less  altered.     The  New  Hall  of  the 
Inn,  built  only  in  1845,  nevertheless  wears  a  sober  and  respect- 


Lincoln's  Inn. 


able  look  of  antiquity ;  and  the  new  buildings  are  already  less 
garish.  Perhaps,  at  first,  in  contrasting  the  new  houses  of 
Lincoln's  Inn  with  the  old,  where  they  rise  side  by  side,  one  is 


vii  A  STORY  OF  CROMWELL  153 

tempted  for  a  moment  to  cry  out  against  the  modern  taste  in 
variegated  brick-work  ;  till  on  closer  examination  one  finds  it 
to  be  a  faithful  copy  of  the  older  style,  only  not  yet  darkened 
by  age  !  So  true  is  it,  as  Millais  has  said,  that  "  Time  is  the 
greatest  of  the  old  Masters."  And  the  smoke  of  London  ages 
buildings  quickly  ;  this  is  one  of  its  advantages.  The  real  innova- 
tion in  the  newer  style  is  in  the  windows ;  for,  where  narrow 
lozenges  pierced  the  wall,  now  are  tall,  imposing  bay  windows, 
a  wealth  of  glass  before  undreamed  of.  .  The  great  modern 
cry  is  ever,  "  Let  there  be  light  !  "  But  then,  we,  in  our  day, 
do  not  have  to  pay  window  tax. 

The  fine  Gatehouse  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  that  opens  upon 
Chancery  Lane,  has  a  delightful  look  of  medievalism  ;  it  is  in 
the  Hampton  Court  style,  and  was  built  in  1518  by  Sir 
Thomas  Lowell,  whose  arms  it  bears,  as  well  as  the  date  of  its 
erection.  Here,  tradition  says,  "  Ben  Jonson,  a  poor  brick- 
layer, was  found  working  on  this  gate  with  a  Horace  in  one 
hand  and  a  trowel  in  the  other,  when  some  gentlemen,  pitying 
him,  gave  him  money  to  leave  '  so  mean  a  calling  '  and  pursue 
his  studies." 

Here  in  Lincoln's  Inn  are  again  quiet,  picturesque  courts  ; 
sundials  with  Latin  mottoes  ;  calm  enclosures  of  quiet  amidst 
the  surrounding  racket.  At  No.  24,  "  Old  Buildings,"  is  a 
tablet  recording  the  residence  here  of  JohnThurloe,  Cromwell's 
secretary.  An  interesting  story  is  told  of  these  chambers.  The 
Protector  is  said  to  have  visited  his  secretary  here  one  day, 
and  disclosed  to  him  a  plot  for  seizing  the  young  princes,  sons 
of  Charles  I.  The  plans  had  been  discussed,  when  Thurloe's 
clerk  was  discovered,  apparently  asleep,  in  the  room.  Crom- 
well was  for  killing  him,  but  this  Thurloe  dissuaded  him  from 
doing,  and,  passing  a  dagger  repeatedly  over  his  face,  thought  to 
prove  that  he  was  really  asleep.  The  clerk,  however,  had 
merely  been  shamming,  and  he  subsequently  found  means  to 
warn  the  princes  of  their  danger.  Such  a  dramatic  story  cer- 
tainly deserves  to  be  true  ! 


154  "ALLEGORY"  IN  LINCOLN'S-INN-FIELDS         CHAP. 

Lincoln's-Inn-Fields,  though  perhaps  hardly  rural,  is  still  the 
largest  and  shadiest  square  in  London.  It  had  in  old  days  a 
bad  reputation  for  thieves  and  footpads,  for  the  pillory,  and  also, 
more  tragically,  as  a  place  of  execution.  Here  the  conspirators 
in  Mary  Queen  of  Scots'  cause  were  hanged  and  quartered  ;  and 
here  gallant  Lord  William  Russell  died  for  alleged  treason, 
"  his  whole  behaviour  a  triumph  over  death." 

The  tall  substantial  houses  around  Lincoln's-Inn-Fields  bear 
a  look  of  bygone  state,  an  ancient  grandeur  well  described  in 
Bleak  House.  Here  is  an  account  of  the  mansion  inhabited 
by  the  astute  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  in  this  square  : 

"  Here,  in  a  large  house,  formerly  a  house  of  state,  lives  Mr.  Tulking- 
horn. It  is  let  off  in  sets  of  chambers  now ;  and  in  those  shrunken 
fragments  of  its  greatness,  lawyers  lie  like  maggots  in  nuts.  But  its  roomy 
staircases,  passages,  and  antechambers  still  remain ;  and  even  its  painted 
ceilings,  where  Allegory,  in  Roman  helmet  and  celestial  linen,  sprawls 
among  balustrades  and  pillars,  flowers,  clouds,  and  big-legged  boys,  and 
makes  the  head  ache — as  would  seem  to  be  Allegory's  object  always,  more 
or  less.  Here.  .  .  .  lives  Mr.  Tulkinghorn.  .  .  .  Like  as  he  is  to  look  at, 
so  is  his  apartment  in  the  dusk  of  the  afternoon.  Rusty,  out  of  date,  with- 
drawing from  attention,  able  to  afford  it." 

The  house  thus  described  by  Dickens  was  that  of  his  friend 
Forster,  and,  no  doubt,  he  knew  it  well.  Very  few  private 
houses  exist,  I  imagine,  in  Lincoln's-Inn-Fields  to-day  :  and 
poor  "  Allegory  "  is  now  there  for  ever  at  a  discount.  The  fine 
mansions,  with  their  paved  forecourts  and  massive  gate-posts, 
have  had  their  day,  and  have  now  ceased  (for  the  larger  world, 
that  is)  to  be.  Yet  it  is  an  imposing  square  still,  and,  seen  in 
the  sunshine  of  a  May  morning,  is  distinctly  attractive. 

Very  attractive,  too,  is  Staple  Inn,  so  well  known  to 
Londoners  by  its  old  gabled  Holborn  front.  This,  in  some 
ways  the  most  charming  of  all  the  Inns,  is  kindly  preserved  to 
us  by  the  altruism  of  the  Prudential  Assurance  Company, 
whose  property  it  is,  and  who  at  considerable  expense  have 
repaired  and  saved  from  .destruction  this  historical  "  bit "  of 
Old  London.  The  picturesque  gables  of  Staple  Inn,  its  well- 


vii  STAPLE  INN  155 

known  lath-and-plaster  front,  would,  indeed,  be  sadly  missed  if 
they  disappeared  from  the  line  of  Holborn.  Nothing  so  well 
gives  the  idea  of  the  London  of  the  Tudors,  of  the  early 
Stuarts,  as  this  time-honoured  edifice.  Staple  Inn,  though 
generally  supposed  to  be  earlier,  is  really  of  the  time  of  James  I : 
and  its  crumbling  and  insecure  walls,  during  the  recent  (and 
still  continuing)  building  operations  near  it,  have  required 
much  "  underpinning." 

Entering  under  the  archway  of  Staple  Inn,  we  find  ourselves 
suddenly  in  a  quiet  old  court  set  about  with  plane  trees,  and 
in  the  middle  a  rustic  seat  placed,  in  countrified  fashion,  round 
a  tree  trunk ;  the  old  Hall  of  the  Inn  forming  the  background. 
It  is  a  charming  spot  enough,  with  a  most  collegiate  and 
secluded  air ;  an  air  so  strange,  indeed,  in  this  neighbourhood 
as  to  have  struck  many  writers,  among  others  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne : 

"I  went  astray"  (he  says)  "in  Holborn,  through  an  arched  entrance, 
over  which  was  '  Staple  Inn '  .  .  .  .  but  in  a  court  opening  inwards  from 
this  was  a  surrounding  seclusion  of  quiet  dwelling  houses,  with  beautiful  green 
shrubbery  and  grass-plots  in  the  court,  and  a  great  many  sunflowers  in  full 
bloom.  .  .  .  There  was.  .  .  .  not  a  quieter  spot  in  England  than  this. 
In  all  the  hundreds  of  years  since  London  was  built,  it  has  not  been  able  to 
sweep  its  roaring  tide  over  that  little  island  of  quiet." 

And  Dickens  thus  writes  of  it : 

"  Behind  the  most  ancient  part  of  Holborn,  where  certain  gabled  houses 
some  centuries  of  age  still  stand  looking  out  on  the  public  way.  ...  is 
a  little  nook  composed  of  two  irregular  quadrangles,  called  Staple  Inn.  It 
is  one  of  those  nooks,  the  turning  into  which  out  of  the  clashing  street 
imparts  to  the  relieved  pedestrian  the  sensation  of  having  put  cotton  in  his 
ears  and  velvet  soles  on  his  boots.  It  is  one  of  those  nooks  where  a  few 
smoky  sparrows  twitter  in  smoky  trees,  as  though  they  called  to  one 
another,  '  Let  us  play  at  country.'  " 

Dickens  made  this  the  abode  of  his  kindly  lawyer  of 
Edwin  Drood  (Mr.  Grewgious).  The  chambers  where  that 
gentleman  is  supposed  to  have  dwelt  are  marked  on  a  stone 
above  the  doorway,  with  initials,  and  a  date — 1747. 


156  QUALITY  COURT  CHAP. 

Beyond  the  first  square,  through  another  archway,  a  garden- 
plot  is  reached,  the  garden  of  the  Hall.  Very  picturesque  is 
this  old  Hall,  long  and  low,  with  gabled  lanthorns, — one  large, 
one  small, — and  high  timber  roofs.  The  garden  plot  is  bright 
even  in  winter,  with  variegated  laurels  and  a  privet  hedge ; 
these,  with  the  darkened  red-brick  of  the  old  Hall,  make  a 
charming  picture.  Opposite  the  garden-court  extends  the 
new  and  very  attractive  modern  building  of  1843,  on  a  raised 
terrace  :  designed  in  early  Jacobean  style,  and  of  a  simple 
dignity  that  does  not  quarrel  with  its  surroundings.  This  line 
of  buildings  is  continued  towards  Chancery  Lane  by  the  new 
"Government  Patent  Office,"  an  admirable  structure  as  yet 
untouched  by  the  mellowing  London  smoke.  The  buildings 
of  the  "Birkbeck  Bank"  opposite,  which,  in  their  turn,  tower 
over  the  little  Staple  Inn  Hall  and  garden,  show, — in  painful 
contrast  both  to  their  unobjectionable  Holborn  front,  and  to 
the  fine  simplicity  of  the  Patent  Office, — a  very  ornate  medley 
of  terra-cotta  and  Doulton-ware ;  a  chaos  of  bluish -green  pillars 
and  aggressive  plaques  and  tiles,  for  which,  indeed,  some 
covering  of  London  soot  is  greatly  to  be  wished.  One  might 
almost  think  that  one  had  got  into  Messrs.  Spiers  and  Pond's 
refreshment-rooms  or  a  "  Central-Railway-Station  "  by  mistake. 
Disillusions,  however,  are  frequent  in  this  semi-chaotic  region 
of  new  and  old  buildings,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
back  of  the  Patent  Office  (in  "Quality  Court")  is  somewhat 
disappointing  after  its  front  view;  it  resembles,  with  its  old, 
blackened  pillars,  a  disused  dissenting  chapel ;  and  Quality 
Court  itself  seems,  like  so  many  of  the  purlieus  of  the  smaller 
Inns,  mainly  redolent  of  charwomen,  cats,  and  orange- 
peel.  Nevertheless,  even  in  dingy  "Quality  Court"  there  are 
some  respectable  houses  with  quaint  old  doorways,  as  well  as 
some  good  iron-work  in  the  upper  balconies. 

Some  of  the  neighbouring  courts  are,  however,  far  more 
unsavoury.  See,  for  instance,  "  Fleur-de-Lis  "  Court,  off  Fetter 
Lane,  a  miserable,  dilapidated  flagged  alley.  The  last  time 


FLEUR-DE-LIS  COURT,  OFF  FETTER  LANE 


157 


I  visited  this  place,  I  found  a  few  dirty  children  dancing  to 
a  poor  cripple's  playing  of  a  kind  of  spinet  or  portable 
piano  (some  of  the  "music"  of  these  peripatetic  street- 


Fetter  Lane. 


players  is  of  a  weird  kind).  Fleur-de-Lis  Court !— charmingly 
named,  but,  like  all  courts  with  such  romantic  appellations, 
particularly  grimy  and  squalid.  Further  up,  away  from  Fetter 


158  NEWTON  HALL  CHAP. 

Lane,  where  the  "  court "  or  narrow  alley  becomes  even  more 
wretchedly  ruinous,  is  a  barn-like  place  labelled  "  Newton 
Hall."  It  seems  at  a  first  glance  to  be  the  very  abomination 
of  desolation ;  its  rusty  door  padlocked,  with  an  air,  too,  of  never- 
being-opened.  Is  there  anything,  I  wondered  at  a  first  glance, 
more  dismal  in  all  London  ?  Yet,  on  looking  nearer,  I  seemed 
to  see  something  comparatively  clean  shining  on  the  wall  of 
"  Newton  Hall,"  amid  the  surrounding  grime.  Can  it  be,— 
yes,  it  is, — a  label, — and  apparently  affixed  there  within  the 
memory  of  man :  "  Positivist  Society."  Surely,  I  reflected, 
the  Positivist  Cause  must  be  in  a  bad  way,  if  the  dilapidation 
of  the  buildings  be  any  guide  to  the  state  of  the  persuasion 
itself!  It  is,  however,  unfair  to  judge  the  state  of  Positivism 
from  Fleur-de-Lis  Court,  for  the  whole  neighbourhood  has, 
evidently,  but  a  short  span  of  life  remaining,  and  the  court  and 
its  purlieus  will  soon  be  things  of  the  past.  Positivism  is 
already  removing  or  removed ;  and  Newton  Hall,  till  Fleur-de- 
Lis  Court  is  transmogrified  in  the  march  of  progress  into 
offices  or  model-dwellings,  will  rust  for  some  few  years  in 
peace. 

The  neighbourhood  in  which  the  old  Hall  stands  is  full  of 
historic  memories.  As  is  ever  the  case  in  crowded  Central 
London,  the  past,  the  many  pasts,  are  strangely  involved  and 
blended,  buried  one  beneath  the  other.  Dryden  and  Otway  are 
said  to  have  once  lived — and  quarrelled — on  and  near  this  site. 
Then,  in  1710,  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  the  then  President  of  the 
Royal  Society,  induced  that  body  to  buy  a  house  and  garden 
here  from  Dr.  Barebones,  a  descendant  of  the  "  Praise-God- 
Barebones  "  of  Puritan  times.  Sir  Christopher  Wren  concurred 
in  the  purchase,  and  ,£1,450  was  paid  for  the  freehold.  In 
this  house  the  Royal  Society  held  their  meetings  till  they 
removed  to  Somerset  House  in  1782;  and  they  built  on  its 
garden  the  present  "Newton  Hall,"-— which  hall,  some  say,  is 
really  from  the  designs  of  Wren.  In  1818,  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge,  unhappy  son  of  genius,  gave  his  last  public  lectures 


vii  VANISHING  LONDON  159 

here ;  later,  it  was  used  as  a  chapel,  and  then  the  Positivist 
Society  made  it  their  home.  It  is  strange  to  reflect  that  the 
chief  reason  advanced  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton  to  the  Royal 
Society  for  the  purchase  of  this  site,  was  that  it  was  "  in  the 
middle  of  the  town  and  out  of  noise." 

At  the  Holborn  end  of  Fetter  Lane  there  are  still  some  fine 
old  gabled  houses,  which  must  soon  vanish ;  several  little  Inns 
of  Chancery,  byways  out  of  Holborn  and  the  Strand,  have 
already  been  swept  away :  Thavies'  Inn  for  instance,  where 
Dickens,  surely  by  an  intentional  anachronism,  places  Mrs. 
Jellyby's  untidy  home  ;  Lyon's  Inn,  near  Wych  Street,  destroyed 
in  1863 ;  Old  Furnival's  Inn,  on  the  opposite  side  of  Holborn, 
where  Dickens  lived  when  he  was  first  married,  has  been  re- 
placed by  the  offices  of  the  Prudential  Assurance  Company,  the 
saviours  of  Staple  Inn,  in  intense  red-brick.  Lastly,  Barnard's 
Inn  (originally  Mackworth's  Inn),  a  charming  little  Holborn  Inn 
on  a  tiny  scale,  with  small  courts,  trees,  a  miniature  hall  and  Ian- 
thorn,  has  been  bought  up  by  the  Mercers'  Company  and  is  used 
by  them  as  a  school.  This  Inn  is  therefore  not  now  accessible 
to  the  casual  visitor ;  its  Holborn  entrance  may,  indeed,  easily  be 
missed ;  "  Mercers'  School,"  in  big  gilt  letters,  adorns  its  narrow 
doorway.  What  a  delightful  private  residence,  one  thinks,  for 
some  rich  man,  would  such  a  little  Inn  as  this  have  made ! 
Strange  that  no  rich  man  has  ever  thought  so  !  the  rich,  like 
sheep,  flock  ever  towards  the  less  interesting  West  End. 
Dickens,  as  I  have  suggested,  had  little  eye  for  the  purely 
picturesque ;  and  of  this  little  Inn,  compared  by  Loftie  to  one 
of  De  Hooghe's  pictures,  he  merely  says  (in  Great  Expecta- 
tions^) that  it  is  "the  dirtiest  collection  of  shabby  buildings 
ever  squeezed  together  in  a  rank  corner  as  a  club  for  tom-cats  !  " 
So  much,  indeed,  is  Beauty  in  the  eye  of  the  seer !  Barnard's 
Inn  is  also  remarkable  for  having  been,  in  the  last  century,  the 
abode  of  the  last  of  the  alchemists. 

A  gateway  on  the  north  side  of  Holborn  leads  to  Gray's  Inn, 
the  most  northerly  of  the  four  big  Inns  of  Court,  The  gardens 


160  GRAY'S  INN  GARDENS  CHAP. 

of  Gray's  Inn  are  green  and  spacious,  and  its  courts  and  quad- 
rangles have  a  sober  solidity  that  is  very  attractive.  This  Inn 
affords  a  welcome  retreat  from  two  of  the  noisiest  and  most 
unpoetic  thoroughfares  in  London, — Gray's  Inn  Road  and 
Theobald's  Road. 

Here  is  Hawthorne's  description  of  Gray's  Inn  Gardens  : 

"  Gray's  Inn  is  a  great  quiet  domain,  quadrangle  beyond  quadrangle 
close  beside  Holborn,  and  a  large  space  of  greensward  enclosed  within  it. 
It  is  very  strange  to  find  so  much  of  ancient  quietude  right  in  the  monster 
City's  very  jaws,  which  yet  the  monster  shall  not  eat  up — right  in  its  very 
belly,  indeed,  which  yet,  in  all  these  ages,  it  shall  not  digest  and  convert 
into  the  same  substance  as  the  rest  of  its  bustling  streets.  Nothing  else  in 
London  is  so  like  the  effect  of  a  spell,  as  to  pass  under  one  of  these  arch- 
ways, and  find  yourself  transported  from  the  jumble,  rush,  tumult,  uproar,  as 
of  an  age  of  week-days  condensed  into  the  present  hour,  into  what  seems  an 
eternal  Sabbath." 

And  Charles  Lamb  also  said  of  them  : 

' '  These  are  the  best  gardens  of  any  of  the  Inns  of  Court — my  beloved 
Temple  not  forgotten — have  the  gravest  character,  their  aspect  being  alto- 
gether reverend  and  law-breathing.  Bacon  has  left  the  impress  of  his  foot 
upon  their  gravel  walks." 

Bacon  (Lord  Verulam)  planted  here  not  only  the  spreading 
elm-trees,  but  also  a  catalpa  in  the  garden's  north-east  corner. 
In  Gray's  Inn  is  also  "  Bacon's  Mount,"  which  answers  to  the 
recommendation  in  the  "  Essay  on  Gardens  "  ;  "A  mount  of 
some  pretty  height,  leaving  the  wall  of  the  enclosure  breast 
high,  to  look  abroad  into  the  fields."  Gray's  Inn  Walks  were, 
in  Stuart  times,  very  rural  as  well  as  very  fashionable ;  in  1621 
we  find  them  mentioned  by  Howell  as  "  the  pleasantest  place 
about  London,  with  the  choicest  society  "  ;  and  the  Tatler  and 
Spectator  alike  confirm  this  statement. 

But,  alas !  Gray's  Inn  Walks  are  curtailed,  and  its  gardens 
deserted  enough,  at  the  present  day  !  No  more  does  Fashion 
walk  there,  unless  it  be  the  "  fashion  "  of  the  Gray's  Inn  Road. 
Many  of  the  solid  brick  squares  are  fallen,  like  Mr.  Tulking- 


vii  THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  INNS  161 

horn's  haunt  of  "  Allegory,"  into  comparative  decay ;  others, 
perhaps,  are  still  more  or  less  substantial ;  but  the  grime  of  many 
unpainted  years  of  occupation  must,  one  thinks,  be  more  or  less 
conducive  to  midnight  gloom,  or  even  to  the  before-mentioned 
complaint  of  "  the  'errors ! "  And  yet,  with  all  these  draw- 
backs, do  not  the  suites  of  rooms  in  the  Inn  emanate  a  semi- 
historic  charm,  a  charm  that  the  newer  "  flats  "  can  never,  never 
possess  ?  Even  apart  from  mere  history,  places  where  people 
have  lived  and  experienced  and  suffered,  always,  I  think,  breathe 
a  certain  humanity  ....  And  I  would  rather,  for  my  part,  have 
a  dinner  of  herbs  in  Gray's  Inn,  in  a  low-roofed  panelled 
parlour,  with  windows  open  on  to  the  green  enclosure  below, 
than  enjoy  all  the  dainties  of  the  clubs  in  a  "  Palace  Mansions," 
with  all  the  newest  electric  appliances  ....  I  would  rather  hear 
the  dim  echoes  of  the  past  in  the  rustle  of  the  Gray's  Inn  elm- 
trees,  or  the  plash  of  the  Temple  Fountain,  than  boast  of  a 
theatre  agency  next  door,  or  live  in  a  West  End  street  of  ever 
so  desirable  people.  .  .  .1  would  rather  breathe  the  sweet  and 
solitary  content  of  a  City  quadrangle,  than  the  fevered  and 
stormy  dissipation  of  Mayfair  ...  I  would  rather.  .  .  . 

But  the  day  darkens,  and  reminds  me  that  I  have  wandered 
long  enough  in  these  City  closes.  Farewell,  old  Inns  !  haunts 
of  ancient  peace,  goodnight !  You  will,  surely,  not  always 
remain  as  you  have  been  in  the  past.  For  some  of  you,  that 
all-invading  iconoclast,  the  builder,  will  alter  and  destroy  old 
landmarks  ;  for  others,  but  few  springs,  maybe,  will  return  to 
awake  and  gladden  you  into  green  beauty  of  plane  and  elm. 
Yet,  even  then,  the  memories  of  past  glories  will  haunt  the 
sacred  place,  and  fill  it  with  "  a  diviner  air  "  ;  even  then,  will 
surely  never  wholly  be  abolished  or  destroyed  those  traditions  of 

former  greatness  that 

"  — like  the  actions  of  the  just, 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust." 


M 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    EAST    AND    THE    WEST 
' '  Behold  how  far  the  East  is  from  the  West  ! " 

"  A  forest  of  houses,  between  which  ebbs  and  flows  a  stream  of  human 
faces,  with  all  their  varied  passions — an  awful  rush  of  love,  hunger,  and 
hate — for  such  is  London." — Heine. 

"  To  Newton  and  to  Newton's  Dog  Diamond,"  says  Carlyle, 
"  what  a  different  pair  of  Universes ;  while  the  painting  on  the 
optical  retina  of  both  was,  most  likely,  the  same."  "  A  distinct 
Universe,"  adds  Thackeray  in  the  same  spirit,  "  walks  about 
under  your  Hat,  and  under  mine."  This  latter  reflection  occurs 
to  me  often  as  I  walk  about  London,  and  note  all  its  many 
"  sorts  and  conditions  "  of  men.  There  is  here,  especially,  every- 
thing in  the  "  point  of  view."  From  the  West  to  the  East  is  a 
wide  difference ;  yet,  between  the  two,  how  many  minor 
differences  ? 

London,  indeed,  is  hardly  like  a  single  city ;  it  is  rather  like 
many  cities  rolled  into  one.  Here,  more  than  anywhere  else, 
you  realize  that  "  it  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world  " ;  for  the  in- 
habitants vary  quite  as  widely  as  do  those  of  foreign  countries. 
It  was  Disraeli  who  said,  with  much  cynical  truth  : 

1 '  The  courts  of  two  cities  do  not  so  differ  from  one  another  as  the  court 
and  the  city  in  their  peculiar  ways  of  life  and  conversation.  In  short,  the 
inhabitants  of  St.  James's,  notwithstanding  they  live  under  the  same  laws, 
and  speak  the  same  language,  are  a  distinct  people  from  those  of 
Cheapside. " 


CONTRASTING  TYPES 


163 


Between  the  people  of  the  East,  and  those  of  the  West,  it  is 
not  merely  a  question  of  distance  ;  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
two  types  are  often  closely  interwoven.  Thus,  there  is  an 


A  Railway  Bookstall. 

"  East  in  the  West,"  where,  not  infrequently,  slums  and  mean 
streets  lie  in  near  juxtaposition  to  squares  of  lordly  pleasure- 
houses,  and  where  recently  erected  "  model  dwellings "  for 
workmen  flourish  in  the  very  hearts  of  the  Grosvenor  and 

M  2 


164  CONVENTIONALITIES  CHAP. 

Cadogan  Estates ;  and  there  is  a  "  West  in  the  East,"  as 
testified  by  the  pleasant  wide  streets  of  comfortable  roomy 
houses  that  abound  in  the  near  suburbs  of  East  and  South 
London.  Yet,  it  may  be  broadly  stated  that  every  part  of 
London  has  manners  peculiar  to  itself,  as  unvarying,  in  their 
way,  as  were  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians  ;  with,  also,  one 
principal  dividing-line, — that  intangible  line  separating  the  East 
End  from  the  West  End.  Here  are  a  few  of  the  differences 
between  the  two : 

The  West  End  has  all  the  money  and  all  the  leisure ;  the  East 
End  monopolizes  most  of  the  labour,  and  nearly  all  of  the  dirt. 
The  West  End  numbers  a  few  thousands  of  floating  population  ; 
the  East  End,  a  million  or  so  of  pretty  constant  inhabitants. 
Yet,  by  some  strange  association  of  ideas,  it  is  to  this  small 
"  West  End  "  that  we  allude  when  we  speak  of  "  all  London,"  and 
to  which  the  daily  papers  refer  when  in  August  and  September 
they  assure  us  that  "  there  is  absolutely  no  one  left  in  town." 
The  manners  and  customs  of  each  are  dissimilar ;  both  indulge 
in  slang  of  a  kind  ;  but,  while  the  East  End  usually  cuts  off  the 
initial  letter  of  its  words,  the  West-End  drops  the  final  one. 
The  West  End  is  shocked  by  the  East,  but  then,  the  East  End 
is  just  as  much  shocked,  for  its  part,  by  the  West.  If  the 
"  lady  "  is  full  of  righteous  scorn  for  the  "  factory  hand  "  who 
spends  her  hard-won  earnings  on  a  feathered  hat  and  a  plush 
cape,  the  slum-dweller  is,  on  the  other  hand,  quite  equally 
scandalized  at  the  "lady's"  brazen  boldness  in'  wearing  a 
decollete  dress :  "  To  think  of  'er  'avin'  the  fice  ter  go  hout 
with  them  nyked  showlders,  'ow  'orrid  !  "  the  factory  girl  will  say, 
from  out  the  street-door  crowd  at  an  evening  "  crush."  Even 
a  veiled  Turkish  lady,  from  the  secluded  harem,  could  hardly 
show  more  genuine  feeling  at  the  unpleasant  spectacle.  No,  our 
ways  are  not  as  their  ways.  Their  conventionalities  are  quite 
as  strict,  even  stricter,  than  ours.  Possibly  to  them,  even  our 
speech  sounds  just  as  faulty  as  theirs  to  us;  probably  they 
think  us  very  ill-bred  because  we  do  not  constantly  reiterate 


VIII 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 


165 


the  words  "  Mrs.  Smith,"  or  "  Mrs.  Jones,"  when  addressing 
the  said  ladies ;  or  cry  immediately,  "  Granted,  Miss,  or  Sir," 
in  reply  to  "  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  At  any  rate,  we  must,  to 
them,  seem  chilly  and  unresponsive.  Then,  the  books  we 
read,  if  they  understood  them,  would  often  greatly  shock  the 
slum-dwellers ;  the  pictures  we  hang  in  our  parlours  would 
horrify  them.  Servants  do  not  come  from  the  slums  or 


The  City  Train. 

even  from  the  lowest  class ;  yet  I  have  myself,  out  of  regard 
for  their  feelings,  had  to  "sky"  the  most  beautiful  chefs- 
(Fauvre  of  Titian,  and  turn  the  photograph  of  a  masterpiece 
by  Praxiteles  with  its  face  ignominiously  to  the  wall.  And  it's 
"  'ow  you  can  go  to  that  there  National  Gallery,  'm,  and  look 
at  them  pictures  of  folkses  without  a  rag  on  'em,  well,  it  beats 
me,  it  do  indeed ! "  After  all,  and  once  more,  the  difference 
is  all  in  "  the  point  of  view  !  " 


166  ALL  SORTS  AND  CONDITIONS  CHAP. 

But,  if  the  East  and  the  West  have  their  wide  and  radical 
differences,  between  the  two  there  are,  as  I  said,  many  re- 
curring types.  And  the  constant  Londoner,  were  he  suddenly 
to  be  brought,  blindfolded,  to  some  hitherto  unknown  spot  in 
the  city  or  near  suburbs,  would  soon  know  his  whereabouts  by 
the  look  of  the  people  he  encountered.  Thus,  you  may  know 
Bloomsbury  by  its  Jews,  as  well  as  by  a  population  remarkable 
for  general  frowsiness,  a  look  of  "  ingrained "  dirt,  and  an 
indescribable  air  of  having  seen  better  days;  Chelsea,  by  a 
certain  art-serged  female,  and  long-haired  male  community 
with  an  artistic, — and,  yes, — perhaps  a  well-pleased  and  self- 
satisfied  air ;  the  "  City,"  by  its  black-coated  business  men ; 
Whitechapel,  by  its  coster  girls  with  fringes ;  Somers  Town 
and  Lisson  Grove,  by  their  odoriferous  cats  and  cabbages ; 
Mayfair,  by  its  sleek  carriage-horses,  and  also  by  the  very 
superior  maids  and  butlers  you  meet  in  its  silent  streets.  Or, 
perhaps,  by  the  straw  that  occasionally  fills  the  quiet  square 
corners,  sounding  the  sad  note  of  Death.  I  have  seen  a  slum 
child  dying  of  cancer  in  a  crowded  garret, — baked  by  the 
August  sun, — covered  with  flies, —  in  a  noisy  alley;  but  only 
rich  people's  nerves  require  soothing  at  the  last ! 

Miss  Amy  Levy  has  written  a  haunting  little  poem  on  this 

subject : 

"  Straw  in  the  street,  where  I  pass  to-day, 
Dulls  the  sound  of  the  wheels  and  feet. 
'Tis  for  a  failing  life  they  lay 

Straw  in  the  street. 

"  Here,  where  the  pulses  of  London  beat, 
Someone  strives  with  the  Presence  Grey — 
Ah,  is  it  victory  or  defeat  ? 

"  The  hurrying  people  go  their  way, 
Pause  and  jostle  and  pass  and  greet ; 
For  life,  for  death,  are  they  treading,  say, 

Straw  in  the  street  ?  " 

"  London,"  says  a  French  writer,  "  resembles,  in  its  size  and 
luxury,  Ancient  Rome."  But,  if  Ancient  Rome,  he  adds, 


vin  RICH  AND  POOR  167 

weighed  heavily  upon  its  toiling  slaves,  "  how  heavily  does  not 
our  modern  Rome  weigh,  also,  upon  the  labouring  class ! " 
The  hanging  gardens  of  Park  Lane  are  in  as  great,  and  greater 
contrast  to  the  Somers  Town,  Drury  Lane,  and  Deptford  slums, 
as  were  ever  the  Palaces  of  the  Palatine  to  the  slaves'  quarters. 
London  is  the  best  city  in  the  world  to  be  rich  in,  the  worst  to 
be  very  poor  in ;  as  it  is  the  best  city  for  happiness,  the  worst 
for  misery.  It  is  the  Temple  of  Midas,  where  everything, — from 
a  coffin  to  a  hired  guest, — from  the  entree  to  an  "exclusive" 
mansion  to  a  peer's  status, — can  be  bought  with  money. 
Here,  more  than  anywhere  else,  money  is  imperatively  needed. 
Even  the  poor  hawkers  who  live  in  unspeakable  slums,  lined 
with  cats  and  cabbages,  in  Lisson  Grove,  might,  if  they  lived 
in  the  country,  at  least  have  clean  cottages,  gardens,  and  pure 
air.  With  the  same  income  on  which  you  are  poor  in  town, 
you  will  be  well-to-do,  nay,  rich  in  the  country.  House-rent, — 
indirect  taxation, — the  vicinity  of  tempting  shops, — and  amuse- 
ments take  the  surplus.  The  attractions  of  town  must  indeed  be 
great  to  the  poor ;  for,  if  their  wages  be  higher,  their  life  is 
infinitely  lower.  But  it  is  the  same  in  all  classes.  It  is  often 
said  that  the  rich,  who  own  so  many  large  and  luxurious  country 
estates,  houses,  and  gardens,  are  ill-advised  to  come  up  to  town 
and  spend  hot  Mays  and  Junes  in  baking  Belgravia  or  Mayfair ; 
but,  after  all,  they  only  share  the  tastes  of  the  majority.  Man 
is  a  gregarious  animal,  and  loves  his  kind.  Similarly,  if  you 
were  to  make  a  "house-to-house  visitation"  in  some  wretched 
Lisson  Grove  or  East  End  slum,  and  inquire  diligently  of  every 
inhabitant,  whether  they  would  prefer  to  "go  back  and  live  in 
the  lovely  country,"  their  answer,  I  am  convinced,  would  be 
firmly  in  the  negative.  East  and  West  are  alike  in  this. 

But  the  key-note  of  the  East  End  of  London,  apart  from  its  big 
thoroughfares,  is  not  so  much  squalor  or  poverty,  as  desperate, 
commonplace  monotony,  such  as  is  described  by  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward  in  Sir  George  Tressady,  "  long  lines  of  low 
houses, — two  storeys  always,  or  two  storeys  and  a  basement, — all 


i68  COMPENSATIONS  CHAP. 

of  the  same  yellowish  brick,  all  begrimed  by  the  same  smoke, 
every  door-knocker  of  the  same  pattern,  every  window-blind 
hung  in  the  same  way,  and  the  same  corner  '  public  '  on  either 
side,  flaming  in  the  hazy  distance."  The  East  End  is  very 
conservative,  and  in  its  better  houses  there  is  a  conservatism 
even  in  the  blinds,  which  are,  almost  invariably,  of  cheap  red 
rep  or  cloth,  alternated  by  dirty  "  lace."  With  the  poorest 
tenants,  of  course,  blinds  are  at  a  discount ;  and  grimy  paper 
fills  the  frequent  holes  in  the  panes. 

Yet,  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose,  as  is  more  or  less  the  popular 
theory,  that  the  average  East  Ender's  life  is  all  unmitigated 
gloom.  Take,  for  instance,  the  life  of  the  honest,  hard-working 
artisan  and  his  family.  He  may  live  in  "  mean  streets";  but 
use  is  everything ;  and  they  are  not  "  mean  "  to  him.  Possibly, 
from  his  point  of  view,  the  two-pair  back,  the  frowsy  street,  are 
"  a  sight  more  homely  and  cosy  "  than  rich  people's  area  gates 
and  chilly  grandeur.  If  the  West  End  takes  its  pleasure  by 
driving  in  the  Park,  the  East,  on  the  other  hand,  finds  its 
relaxation  on  the  tops  of  'buses  and  trams,  in  walking  about 
the  flaring,  gas-jetted  street,  in  looking  into  shop  windows,  or  in 
driving  about  in  all  the  pride  of  a  private,  special  coster's  cart. 
If  the  rich  do  not  know  how  the  poor  live,  the  poor,  on 
the  other  hand,  have  but  a  hazy  idea  of  how  the  rich  live.  If 
you  asked  the  average  slum-dweller  how  the  rich  spend  their 
day,  they  would  most  likely  say,  "  in  drinking  champagne  and 
driving  in  motor  cars."  Thus  the  classes  mutually  do  each  other 
injustice.  If  the  poor,  for  a  while,  could  live  the  life  of  the  rich, 
they  would  vote  it  terribly  slow ;  Calverley  was  not  so  far  out 
when  he  suggested  slyly  that 

"  Unless  they've  souls  that  grovel, 
Folks  prefer  in  fact  a  hovel  to  your  dreary  marble  halls." 

The  poor  of  the  East  End  have  their  special  plays,  their 
theatres,  their  "halls,"  their  cheap  popular  amusements.  And 
they  have  other  minor  compensations.  They  "  eat  hearty  " 


vin  THE  STREET  AS  A  PLAYGROUND  169 

when  they  do  eat ;  they  do  not  fall  ill  from  dyspepsia  or  have 
to  go  to  Carlsbad;  or  if  they  do  suffer  from  M.  Taine's 
favourite  complaint,  "  the  spleen  "  (which  is  unusual  in  a  work- 
ing man),  they  remedy  it  by  a  little  harmless  correction  of  their 
wives.  Or  if  a  poor  woman's  child  is  ill,  she  does  not  suffer 
for  want  of  medical  advice  ;  she  bundles  it  up  quickly  in  a 
shawl,  and  runs  with  it  to  the  nearest  hospital,  where,  if  the 
authorities  are  somewhat  curt,  she  at  any  rate  gets  plenty  of 
sympathy  from  all  the  other  mothers  in  the  big  hospital  wait- 
ing-room. Even  that  large,  shabby  crowd  that,  on  visiting- 
days,  await  the  opening  of  the  hospital  doors,  so  unutterably 
pathetic  to  the  looker-on,  is  not,  perhaps,  without  its  allevia- 
tions. It  is  a  mercy  that  we  do  not  all  like  the  same  thing ; 
and  that,  while  the  rich  are  exclusive,  the  poor  will  enjoy 
society  of  almost  any  kind  :  "  We  shall  'ave  to  leave  our 
lodgin's,  'm,  over  them  nice  mews,'5  a  poor  woman  said  to  me 
lately,  in  a  mournful  tone.  "The  landlord,  he's  takin'  the 
place  down ;  an'  I  shall  miss  the  'orses'  feet  at  night, 
somethin'  shockin' ;  they  was  sech  company  like"  Here,  surely, 
is  a  case  where  one  man's  poison  may  be  another  man's 
meat ! 

As  for  the  children  of  the  working  classes,  they,  unless  their 
parents  are  lazy  or  given  to  drink,  really  have,  often,  a  far 
better  time  of  it,  so  far  as  their  own  actual  enjoyment  is  con- 
cerned, than  the  more  repressed  children  of  the  rich.  The 
pavement  is  their  property,  the  streets  are  their  world ;  the 
beautiful,  dazzling,  magical,  ever-changing  streets,  with  their 
myriad  attractions,  their  boundless  possibilities.  Then,  the 
children  of  the  poor  are  not  brought  up  as  useless  luxuries, 
but,  from  tender  years,  are  required  to  contribute  their  share  of 
help  to  the  household  ;  and  what  the  average  child  loves  above  all 
things  is  to  feel  itself  of  use.  Dirt  and  grime  are  of  no  account 
whatever  to  the  child ;  and  old  clothes  are  always  far  more 
comfortable  than  new  to  play  about  in.  The  "  shades  of  the 
prison  house "  may  close  in,  later,  about  the  children  of  the 


1 70  THE  SUBMERGED  CHAP. 

poor,  when  they  must  go  to  service,  to  the  factory,  to  the  shop  ; 
but,  in  their  early  years,  their  life  has  its  attractions. 

Of  course,  however,  with  the  families  of  the  drunkard,  the 
shiftless,  the  lazy,  the  case  becomes  altogether  different. 
Drifting  hopelessly  from  one  slum  to  another,  these  soon  help 
to  swell  the  sad  ranks  of  the  "submerged  tenth":  poor 
creatures  whose  misery  shivers  in  fireless  garrets  and  damp 
cellars,  whose  empty  stomachs  call  in  vain  for  food  ;  and  whose 
only  outlook  is  the  workhouse,  the  "  big  villa  "  as  they  call  it ; 
an  institution,  however,  that  they  will  only  enter  from  dire 
necessity,  regarding  it,  as  a  rule,  with  wholesome  dislike  and 
disfavour. 

There  are  many  churches  and  chapels  all  over  London,  yet 
the  very  poor  rarely  attend  any  of  them.  Indeed,  very  few 
London  working  men's  wives  attend  any  religious  service, 
unless,  that  is,  they  happen  to  boast  of  a  new  hat  or 
bonnet.  .  .  .  They  will,  however,  receive  the  "  visitor "  or 
"  tract-lady  "  with  a  sort  of  chilly  grandeur  ;  and,  though  their 
acquaintance  with  Holy  Writ  is  generally  slight,  through  all 
life's  troubles  their  favourite  text  is  ever  this  :  "  It  is  easier  for 
a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  than  for  a  rich  man 
to  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven."  Thus,  they  are  always, 
so  to  speak,  comforting  themselves  for  the  enforced  payment 
of  the  insurance  of  hard  work  and  poor  fare  in  this  life  by  the 
assurance  of  paid-up  capital  with  interest,  in  the  next !  Poor, 
hard-worked  mothers  of  the  slums  !  who  would  grudge  you 
that  harmless  and  unfailing  consolation  ? 

Nor  is  the  "  country," — except  in  strictly  limited  quantities, 
—such  an  unfailing  consolation  to  the  children  of  the  poor, 
as  some  would  have  us  imagine.  (That  it  is  such  a  priceless 
advantage  to  their  health  is,  no  doubt,  partly  owing  to  the 
fact  that  it  is  generally  associated  with  good  and  wholesome 
food.)  The  children  like  the  "  real  country  "  for  a  day  or  two  ; 
— afterwards,  they  are  too  often  conscious  of  slight  boredom. 
At  first,  they  delight  in  the  fact  that  "  it's  so  green  all  rarnd, — 


THE  " REAL  COUNTRY 


171 


right  to  the  sky, — with  no  roads,  and  no  walls, — and  no  trespsin 
boards, — and  no  pleecemen  ; "  but  these  joys  have  their  limita- 


^ 


Bank  Holiday. 

tions, — and,     after    a    fortnight's   holiday, — even   poor    slum 
children  are  generally  glad  to  get  back  home.     Even  in  tender 


172  THE  WHITECHAPEL  ROAD  CHAP. 

youth, — the  country  is  a  cult  that  requires  some  learning. 
"  The  country  is  dreadful  slow," — a  little  girl  of  the  great  city 
once  remarked  with  painful  frankness, — "  no  swings,  no  rahnd- 
abarts,  no  penny-ice  men,  no  orgins,  no  shops,  no  nothink  ; — 
jest  a  great  bare  field  only."  Here,  again,  is  the  difference  of 
"  the  point  of  view  !  " 

Go  into  that  glittering  Armida-Palace,  the  busy  Whitechapel 
Road,  and  watch  the  scene  at  nightfall.  The  weather  may  be 
cold  or  mirk ;  the  weather  matters  little ;  the  skies  may  be  glum 
and  starless,  but  a  galaxy  of  light,  from  innumerable  gas  jets 
and  shop  fronts,  floods  the  busy  street.  Here  is,  certainly,  no 
lack  of  life  and  amusement ;  the  crowd  laughs,  jostles,  and 
chatters,  as  if  no  such  thing  as  care  or  struggle  existed.  It 
is  a  motley  crowd.  Handsome  dark-eyed  Jewesses  with 
floppy  hair  and  long  gold  earrings ;  coster  girls  "  on  the 
spree,"  dressed  in  their  gaudy  best ;  staid  couples  doing 
their  weekly  marketing ;  here  and  there  a  happy  family  round  a 
stall,  eating  "  winkles  "  composedly  with  the  help  of  pins,  or 
demolishing  saucerfuls  of  the  savoury  cockle ;  vendors  of 
penny  toys  ;  all  these,  combined  with  the  voluble  "  patter  "  of 
the  lively  shop-boys,  make  a  veritable  pandemonium.  Shops 
are  full ;  barrows  of  all  kinds  drive  a  brisk  trade ; 
velvet-cushioned  trams  ply  up  and  down  the  big  highway, 
which  extends,  apparently  almost  into  infinity,  up  the  long 
Mile  End  Road.  (Tram-lines,  in  London,  seem  more  or  less 
confined  to  the  uninspiring  North  and  East  and  their  suburbs.) 
Ugly  and  uninvigorating  enough  by  day,  the  streets,  by  night, 
invest  themselves  with  mysterious  glamour  and  brightness. 
Like  some  murky  theatre  when  the  deceiving  footlights  are  lit, 
this,  too,  is  a  "  stage  illusion,"  and  it  is  a  wise  one.  For  all 
the  East  End  does  its  shopping  by  gaslight ;  now  only  it  begins 
to  enjoy  its  day.  Seen  in  such  kaleidoscopic  glare  of  light, 
even  the  Whitechapel  Road  has  its  attractions.  Yet  through 
it  all  one  sometimes  sees  sad  sights.  Many  public-houses  dot 
these  thoroughfares,  shining  like  meteors  through  the  nocturnal 


TOYNBEE  HALL 


173 


mists  ;  and  here  and  there,  truth  to  tell,  a  bevy  of  red-faced 
women  may  be  seen  through  the  plate-glass,  whose  unhappy 
infants  are  stationed  in  shabby  perambulators  outside ;  their 
eyes,  by  dint  of  vain  straining  towards  their  natural  guardians, 
painfully  acquiring  that  squint  that  would  seem  to  be  the  birth- 
right of  so  many  of  the  London  poor. 

In  strange  contrast  with  the  din  and  bustle  of  Aldgate  and 
its  network  of  wide  streets,  are  the  collegiate  buildings  of 
Toynbee  Hall,  in  Commercial  Street,  close  by.  This  is  a 
curious  little  oasis  in  the  wilderness,  a  most  unexpected  by-way 
in  busy,  glaring  Whitechapel.  To  Canon  and  Mrs.  Barnett, 
who  have  devoted  their  lives  towards  making  Toynbee  Hall 
what  it  is,  is  due  the  chief  honour  for  the  successful  working 
of  this  Institution,  primarily  intended  to  bring  "  sweetness 
and  light "  into  the  darkened,  unlovely  lives  of  the  London 
poor.  The  name  of  Arnold  Toynbee,  the  young  and  en- 
thusiastic Oxford  man  and  reformer,  has  been  immortalised 
in  this  place,  the  first  of  the  University  Settlements  in  London. 
Toynbee  died  young,  of  overwork  and  overpressure  ;  in  a  sense 
a  martyr  to  his  cause  ;  yet  the  work  of  this  latter-day  apostle 
has  already  had  large  results,  and  his  creed  has  had  many 
followers.  To  him,  dying  in  his  youthful  zeal,  Tennyson's 
lines  seem  specially  appropriate  : 

"  So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 

So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee, 
For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true  ? 

"  O  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults, 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 
Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name." 

In  some  ways,  Toynbee  Hall,  and  its  successive,  and  kin- 
dred institutions,  seem  like  late  revivals  of  the  monastic 
system  of  the  middle  ages.  Toynbee  Hall  is  a  hall  in  the 


174  THE  NEW  GOSPEL  CHAP. 

academic  sense, — and  shelters  successive  batches  of  some 
twenty  residents, — young  university  men  of  strong  convictions, 
— who  come  here  both  to  learn  and  to  teach ; — to  teach  their 
less  fortunate  brothers, — to  learn  how  the  poor  live.  At  its 
hospitable  door  the  sick  and  suffering  apply  for  help  and 
succour  ;  here  charity, — charity,  too,  of  the  kind  that  "  blesseth 
him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes," — is  freely  given, — without 
narrow  restrictions  of  sectarianism  or  dogma — and  it  does 
more  than  this. 

For, —  unlike  the  monastic  system,  —  Toynbee  Hall  is 
specially  devised  to  help  the  individual  soul  of  the  poor  worker 
in  busy  London  to  rise  above  its  often  base  and  mean  sur- 
roundings. The  late  Matthew  Arnold,  in  his  well-remembered 
lecture  at  Toynbee  Hall, — taught  the  possibility  of  "  following 
the  gleam  "  even  in  the  "  gloom  "  of  the  East-End, — and  of 
helping  Nature,  by  the  aid  of  books  and  of  art,  from  sinking 
under  "  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure  distress."  Books  and 
art  are  great  tonics.  The  ancient  monasteries  dissuaded, — if 
anything, — knowledge,  and  aspiration  generally,  in  the 
"  masses  " :  Toynbee  Hall  encourages  and  promotes  it ;  it  is 
thus  a  physician  to  the  mind  even  more  than  to  the  body.  It 
raises  the  aims,  improves  the  tastes,  and  widens  the  horizons 
of  its  disciples ;  it  satisfies  the  cravings  of  the  poor  for  better 
things ;  but  it  must  first  inculcate  such  cravings.  Within  its 
walls  the  poor  and  struggling  artisan  may  enjoy  concerts, 
lectures,  pictures ; — may  learn,  too,  from  the  best  teachers, — 
and  profit  by  many  of  the  advantages  of  university  life.  There 
are  not  only  lecture-rooms,  but  reception-rooms, — dining- 
rooms, — a  library  ; — the  latter  a  much-valued  institution  in  the 
neighbourhood.  Many  pleasant  social  gatherings  are  held  here  ; 
— not  only  of  working  men, — but  also  of  factory  girls, — shop- 
hands, — pupil-teachers, — who  come  here, — these  latter, — to 
cast  off  the  "  codes  "  and  dry  bones  of  learning,  and  acquire 
a  little  of  its  warmer,  fuller  humanity. 

Toynbee  Hall  is  not  the  only  place  in  East  London  where 


viii  THE  UNCONQUERABLE  HOPE  175 

such  works  are  carried  on.  Oxford  House,  Bethnal  Green, — 
and  Mansfield  House,  Canning  Town, — are,  among  others, — 
institutions  more  or  less  of  the  kind ;  and  the  Passmore 
Edwards  Institute,  in  Tavistock  Place,  has  similar  aims.  But 
to  Toynbee  Hall  is  due  the  introduction  of  yearly  loan  Exhi- 
bitions of  good  pictures  for  the  East  End,  —  originated  by 
Canon  Barnett,  and  still  successfully  carried  on  by  his  un- 
wearying exertions. 

The  charms  of  poetic  contrast  are  always  great  in  London. 
While  standing  in  a  dingy  byway  of  some  city  church — St. 
Olave's,  Hart  Street,  or  St.  Jude's,  Whitechapel, — does  not  the 
deep  music  of  the  organ, — resounding  from  inside  the  building, 
— fill  the  listener  with  a  strange  feeling  almost  akin  to  tears  ? 
Not  even  outside  a  country  church  is  one  so  affected.  Here 
it  seems  to  bring  the  calm  of  Eternity  into  the  fitful  fever  of 
the  moment.  The  picturesqueness,  alone,  of  religion,  is  so 
great,  that,  to  the  determined  agnostic  London  would  surely 
lose  half  its  charm.  And  who  could  work  among  the  London 
poor  without,  at  least,  something  of  the  feeling  so  beautifully 
expressed  in  Matthew  Arnold's  well-known  lines  ? 

"  'Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  overhead 

Smote  on  the  squalid  streets  of  Bethnal  Green, 
And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his  windows  seen 
In  Spitalfields,  look'd  thrice  dispirited. 

' '  I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and  said  : 

'  111  and  o'erwork'd,  how  fare  you  in  this  scene  ?  '— 
'  Bravely  ! '  said  he  ;  '  for  I  of  late  have  been 
Much  cheer'd  with  thoughts  of  Christ,  the  living  bread.' 

"  O  human  soul !  as  long  as  thou  canst  so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light, 
Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and  flow, 

To  cheer  thee,  and  to  right  thee  if  thou  roam — 
Not  with  lost  toil  thou  labourest  through  the  night  ! 
Thou  mak'st  the  heaven  thou  hop'st  indeed  thy  home." 

Toynbee  Hall,  of  course,  is  of  modern  design  ;  but  there 
are  still  many  good  old-time  houses  in  the  East-end, — now 


176  THE  EAST  IN  THE  WEST  CHAP. 

deserted  and  left  stranded  by  the  tide  of  fashion.  Of  these  is 
Essex  House,  in  the  Mile-End-Road,  (opposite  Burdett-Road), 
now  no  longer  residential,  but  used  by  Mr.  Ashbee  as  the 
convenient  location  for  his  well-known  "  Guild  and  School  of 
Handicraft,"  Built  partly  by  a  pupil  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren, 
with  panelled  rooms,  oak  staircase,  and  large  garden,  its 
solid  dignity  is  well  suited  to  its  new  and  living  purpose.  Mr. 
Ashbee, — the  founder  and  moving  spirit  of  the  Guild — was 
himself  a  worker  at  Toynbee  Hall,  where,  indeed,  in  a  small 
"Ruskin  class  "  held  in  1886-7,  the  school  had  its  beginning. 
So  one  thing  grows  out  of  another,  and  a  sturdy  plant  sends 
out  its  offshoots. 

Thus  Toynbee  Hall,  and  kindred  institutions,  show  the 
West-end  in  the  East ;  now  let  us  turn  to  the  East-end  in  the 
West.  This  is  not  so  difficult  to  find  ;  "  the  poor,"  indeed, 
"we  have  always  with  us,"  and  in  some  of  London's  most 
fashionable  streets  the  saddest  sights  of  all  may  be  seen.  Slums 
of  a  sort  are  to  be  found  near  most  of  the  fashionable  West- 
end  squares  ;  and,  even  within  the  precincts  of  aristocratic 
Mayfair,  the  expensive  fish-shop  in  Bond-Street, —where, 
during  long  summer  days,  enormous  blocks  of  ice,  tempting  to 
the  eye,  glitter  like  some  Rajah's  diamond, — entertains  a 
motley  crew  of  poor  folk  on  Saturday  nights,  when  it  makes 
a  practice  of  giving  away  its  remaining  stock.  Bond  Street  is, 
in  a  manner,  the  "Aldgate  High  Street"  of  the  fashionable 
world :  here,  at  four  o'clock  or  so  in  the  afternoon,  are  to 
be  seen  the  "gilded  youth," — the  dandies  of  the  day; — here 
the  smart  world  flock  for  afternoon  tea ;  and  here  fine  ladies 
walk  even  unattended,  and  satisfy,  as  eagerly  as  their  White- 
chapel  sisters,  their  feminine  cravings  for  shop- windows  Who 
was  it  who  first  said  that  no  real  woman  could  ever  pass  a  hat- 
shop  ?  The  truth  of  this  remark  may  here  be  attested.  The 
very  smartest  of  motor-cars, — of  horses, — of  "  turn-outs  " 
generally, — may  be  seen  blocking  the  narrow  Piccadilly  en- 
trance of  this  thoroughfare  from  which  deviates  as  many 


vin  BACKMEWSY  STREETS  177 

mysterious  byways  as  from  Cheapside  itself.  Very  much  sought 
after  are  all  these  tiny  streets  ;  indeed,  the  tide  of  fashion  has 
been  ever  faithful  to  this  special  part  of  the  metropolis.  Did 
not  Swift  once  write  to  "  Stella,"  of  the  neighbouring  Bury 
Street ;  "  I  have  a  first  floor,  a  dining-room  and  bedroom,  at 
eight  shillings  a  week, — and  plaguey  dear  !  "  ?  But, — even  con- 
sidering the  vast  difference  in  money  value  since  Swift's  day,— 
we  have  to  pay  a  good  deal  more  than  that  now  for  similar 
accommodation  in  this  quarter. 

But,  yet  further  West,  between  Bond  Street  and  Hyde  Park, 
are  Grosvenor  and  Berkeley  Squares,  the  very  focus  of  fashion, 
in  whose  neighbourhood  rents  rise  proportionately.  Here, 
too,  are  many  unexpected  and  charming  byways.  Behind  the 
vestry  in  Mount  Street,  for  instance,  in  the  passage  that  leads 
into  the  church  in  Farm  Street,  you  might  think  yourself 
thousands  of  miles  away  from  Mayfair.  This  church  in 
Farm  Street,  —the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of  the  Immaculate 
Conception, — is  famous  as  a  Jesuit  centre ;  here  it  was  that 
Henry  Manning,  afterwards  Cardinal,  was  "  received "  on 
Passion  Sunday,  1851. 

Other  byways  there  are,  too,  of  a  less  attractive  kind ;  the 
byways  where  dwell  the  "  poor  relations,"  so  to  speak,  of  the 
Aristocracy  and  the  "  Smart  Set  "  ;  the  impoverished  ladies 
whose  sense  of  propriety  would  lead  them  to  dwell  even  in  a 
wheelbarrow,  could  that  wheelbarrow  only  be  drawn  up  on 
the  fashionable  side  of  the  street !  They  are  "  backmewsy  " 
little  streets  of  saddening  aspect,  such  as  Dickens's  typical 
"  Mews  Street,  Grosvenor  Square,"  that  contained  the  residence 
of  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle,  with  "squeezed  houses,"  each  with 
"  a  ramshackle  bowed  front,  little  dingy  windows,  and  a  little 
dark  area  like  a  damp  waistcoat  pocket "...  the  house  a 
sort  Of  bottle  filled  with  a  strong  distillation  of  mews,  so  that 
when  the  footman  opened  the  door,  he  "  seemed  to  take 
the  stopper  out."  Dickens's  picture  is  still  a  portrait  that 
many  will  recognise  : 

N 


1 78  DICKENS'S  SOCIAL  SATIRES  CHAP. 

"  Mews  Street,  Grosvenor  Square,  was  not  absolutely  Grosvenor  Square 
itself,  but  it  was  very  near  it.  It  was  a  hideous  little  street  of  dead  wall, 
stables,  and  dunghills,  with  lofts  over  coach-houses  inhabited  by  coach- 
men's families,  who  had  a  passion  for  drying  clothes,  and  decorating  their 
window-sills  with  miniature  turnpike-gates.  The  principal  chimney-sweep 
of  that  fashionable  quarter  lived  at  the  blind  end  of  Mews  Street ;  and  the 
same  corner  contained  an  establishment  much  frequented  about  early  morn- 
ing and  twilight,  for  the  purchase  of  wine-bottles  and  kitchen-stuff.  Punch's 
shows  used  to  lean  against  the  dead  wall  in  Mews  Street,  while  their  pro- 
prietors were  dining  elsewhere  ;  and  the  dogs  of  the  neighbourhood  made 
appointments  to  meet  in  the  same  locality.  Yet  there  were  two  or  three 
small  airless  houses  at  the  entrance  end  of  Mews  Street,  which  went  at 
enormous  rents  on  account  of  their  being  abject  hangers-on  to  a  fashionable 
situation  ;  and  whenever  one  of  these  fearful  little  coops  was  to  be  let 
(which  seldom  happened,  for  they  were  in  great  request),  the  house 
agent  advertised  it  as  a  gentlemanly  residence  in  the  most  aristocratic  part 
of  town,  inhabited  solely  by  the  elite  of  the  beau  monde." 

But  to  the  millionaire's  dwelling,  located  at  that  period 
in  Harley  Street,  Cavendish-Square,  the  novelist  is  hardly 
more  polite  : 

"  Like  unexceptionable  society  "  (he  says),  "  the  opposing  rows  of  houses 
in  Harley  Street  were  very  grim  with  one  another.  Indeed,  the 
mansions  and  their  inhabitants  were  so  much  alike  in  that  respect,  that  the 
people  were  often  to  be  found  drawn  up  on  opposite  sides  of  dinner-tables, 
in  the  shade  of  their  own  loftiness,  staring  at  the  other  side  of  the  way  with 
the  dullness  of  the  houses.  Everybody  knows  how  like  the  street  the  two 
dinner-rows  of  people  who  take  their  stand  by  the  street  will  be.  The  ex- 
pressionless uniform  twenty  houses,  all  to  be  knocked  and  rung  at  in  the 
same  form,  all  approachable  by  the  same  dull  steps,  all  fended  off  by  the. 
same  pattern  of  railing,  all  with  the  same  impracticable  fire-escapes,  the 
same  inconvenient  fixtures  in  their  heads,  and  everything  without  exception 
to  be  taken  at  a  high  valuation — who  has  not  dined  with  these  ?  The  house 
so  drearily  out  of  repair,  the  occasional  bow-window,  the  stuccoed  house, 
the  newly-fronted  house,  the  corner  house  with  nothing  but  angular  rooms, 
the  house  with  the  blinds  always  down,  the  house  with  the  hatchment  always 
up,  the  house  where  the  collector  has  called  for  one  quarter  of  an  Idea,  and 
found  nobody  at  home — who  has  not  dined  with  these  ?  " 

Dickens,  on  the  whole,  is  kinder  to  his  thieves'  kitchens 
and  debtors'  prisons,  even  to  Fagin  and  his  crew ;  for  he, 


vin  "THE  LADIES  OF  ST.  JAMES'S"  !;9 

allows  them,  at  any  rate,  to  boast  occasionally  of  an  "  Idea." 
But  the  "  Smart  Set,"  with  the  plutocrats  and  the  Merdles, 
has  moved  westward  since  the  days  of  the  Early- Victorian 
novelists ;  and  "  Harley  Street,  Cavendish  Square,"  is  now 
mainly  medical. 

The  smart  ladies  often  seen  shopping  in  Bond  Street  from 
neat  broughams  and  landaus,  drawn  by  high-stepping  horses, 
are  mainly  people  whose  names  figure  largely  in  the  so-called 
"  society  "  papers ;  their  goings  and  comings,  be  they  aristo- 
cratic or  theatrical,  are  all,  therefore,  carefully  noted  by  the 
ubiquitous  "  lady  reporter ; "  terrible  fate  of  the  well  known 
or  well  born  !  But  it  is  an  age  of  advertisement ;  and  who 
shall  say  entirely  on  which  side  the  fault  lies  ?  Where  these 
leaders  of  society  shop  now,  other  generations  of  fair  dead 
ladies,  gone  "  with  the  snows  of  yesteryear,"  have  in  their  turn 
enjoyed  the  dear  delights  of  lace,  millinery,  and  jewels.  Here 
the  "  ladies  of  St.  James's,"  in  the  eighteenth  century,  revelled 
in  their  "lutestrings,"  "  dimitys,"  "paduasoys"  ;  and,  to  flaunt 
it  over  their  less  fortunate  sisters,  bought  the  very  newest  new 
thing  in  turbans.  Piccadilly,  doubtless,  looked  a  trifle 
brighter  and  smarter  in  those  days  of  less  smoke,  as  befitted 
the  "court  end  of  the  town;"  and  the  young  "swells"  of 
the  day  presented  a  braver  array  in  their  laces,  ruffles,  and 
knee-breeches.  Then,  as  now,  the  Holbein-like  Gate  of  St. 
James's  Palace,  dignified  in  sober  red-brick,  stood  sentinel  at 
the  bottom  of  St.  James's  Street, — the  street  thus  alluded  to  by 
Sheridan  : 

"  The  Campus  Martiusof  St.  James's  Street, 
Where  the  beaux'  cavalry  pace  to  and  fro, 
Before  they  take  the  field  in  Rotten  Row." 

St.  James's  Street,  with  all  its  byways  and  purlieus,  has 
always  been  greatly  in  request  for  exclusive  and  smart  clubs, 
as  well  as  for  bachelors'  lodgings  of  the  luxurious  kind.  It 
has  also  literary  associations.  St.  James's  Place,  where 
Addison  lived,  was  also  noted  for  the  residence  of  the  old 

N    2 


In  Regent  Street. 


CH.  vin  TIME'S  TRANSFORMATION-SCENES  181 

banker-poet  Samuel  Rogers  ;  this  was  his  home  for  fifty-five 
years,  and  here,  at  No.  22,  he  gave  his  famous  "literary 
breakfasts."  Of  old  the  most  exclusive  gathering  in  this 
region  was  "  Almack's,"  ruled  by  the  famous  Lady  Jersey, 
"  the  seventh  heaven  of  the  fashionable  world."  It  is 
situated  in  King  Street,  and  is  now  "Willis's  Rooms."  St. 
James's,  as  a  rule,  is  "  exclusive  "  enough  still ;  but  the  neigh- 
bourhood has  in  other  ways  gone  through  many  changes. 
The  great  house  built  by  Nash  for  the  Regent, — Carlton  House, 
beyond  Pall  Mall, — has  vanished  like  Aladdin's  Palace,  and 
has  left  in  its  place  only  one  big  column,  a  flight  of  noble 
steps,  and  a  stately  terrace  of  palatial  mansions, — Carlton- 
House-Terrace,  overlooking  the  Mall.  This  Phoenix-like  spirit 
of  London,  ever  rising  anew  on  its  own  ashes,  was  always  dear 
to  Thackeray.  Here  is  one  of  his  inimitable  passages  on  the 
subject,  thrown  off  at  random  : 

"  .  .  .  .1  remember  peeping  through  the  colonnade  at  Carlton  House, 
and  seeing  the  abode  of  the  great  Prince  Regent.  I  can  see  yet  the  Guards 
pacing  before  the  gates  of  the  place.  The  place  ?  What  place  ?  The 
palace  exists  no  more  than  the  palace  of  Nebuchadnezzar.  It  is  but  a  name 
now.  Where  be  the  sentries  who  used  to  salute  as  the  Royal  chariots 
drove  in  and  out  ?  "  The  chariots,  with  the  kings  inside,  have  driven  to  the 
realms  of  Pluto  ;  the  tall  Guards  have  marched  into  darkness,  and  the  echoes 
of  their  drums  are  rolling  in  Hades.  Where  the  palace  once  stood,  a  hundred 
little  children  are  paddling  up  and  down  the  steps  to  St.  James's  Park.  A 
score  of  grave  gentlemen  are  taking  their  tea  at  the  Athenaeum  Club  ;  as 
many  grisly  warriors  are  garrisoning  the  United  Service  Club  opposite. 
Pall  Mall  is  the  great  social  Exchange  of  London  now — the  mart  of  news, 
of  politics,  of  scandal,  of  rumour — the  English  forum,  so  to  speak,  where 
men  discuss  the  last  despatch  from  the  Crimea,  the  last  speech  of  Lord 
Derby,  the  next  move  of  Lord  John.  And,  now  and  then,  to  a  few  anti- 
quarians, whose  thoughts  are  with  the  past  rather  than  with  the  present,  it  is  a 
memorial  of  old  times  and  old  people,  and  Pall  Mall  is  our  Palmyra. 
Look.!  About  this  spot,  Tom  of  Ten  Thousand  was  killed  by  Konigs- 
marck's  gang.  In  that  red  house  Gainsborough  lived,  and  Culloden 
Cumberland,  George  III.'s  uncle.  Yonder  is  Sarah  Maryborough's  palace, 
just  as  it  stood  when  that  termagant  occupied  it.  At  25,  Walter  Scott 
used  to  live  ;  at  the  house,  now  No,  79,  and  occupied  by  the  Society  for 


1 82 


A  RETROSPECT 


CHAP. 


the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel  in  Foreign  Parts,  resided  Mrs.  Eleanor 
Gwynn,  comedian.  How  often  has  Queen  Caroline's  chair  issued  from 
under  yonder  arch  !  All  the  men  of  the  Georges  have  passed  up  and  down 
the  street.  It  has  seen  Walpole's  chariot  and  Chatham's  sedan  ;  and  Fox, 


Piccadilly. 

Gibbon,  Sheridan,  on  their  way  to  Brookes's ;  and  stately  William  Pitt 
stalking  on  the  arm  of  Dundas  ;  and  Hanger  and  Tom  Sheridan  reeling  out 
of  Raggett's  ;  and  Byron  limping  into  Wattier's  ;  and  Swift  striding  out  of 
Bury  Street ;  and  Mr.  Addison  and  Dick  Steele,  both  perhaps  a  little  the 


viii  PALL  MALL  183 

better  for  liquor  ;  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  the  Duke  of  York  clattering 
over  the  pavement ;  and  Johnson  counting  the  posts  along  the  streets,  after 
dawdling  before  Dodsley's  window  ;  and  Horry  Walpole  hobbling  into  his 
carriage,  with  a  gimcrack  just  bought  out  at  Christie's  ;  and  George  Selwyn 
sauntering  into  White's." — Thackeray  :  The  Four  Georges,  p.  72. 

Pall  Mall,  the  street  of  palaces  and  palatial  clubs  par 
excellence,  is  one  of  London's  handsomest  highways.  It  has 
for  three  centuries  been  the  Fleet  Street  of  the  well-to-do  poets, 
of  the  leisured  literary  world ;  for  what,  indeed,  could  poverty 
ever  have  in  common  with  Pall  Mall  ?  Defoe,  in  his  day, 
wrote  thus  of  it  : 

"  I  am  lodged  in  the  street  called  Pall  Mall,  the  ordinary  residence  of  all 
strangers,  because  of  its  vicinity  to  the  Queen's  Palace,  the  Park,  the 
Parliament  House,  the  theatres,  and  the  chocolate  and  coffee  houses, 
where  the  best  company  frequent.  If  you  would  know  our  manner  of 
living,  'tis  thus  : — We  rise  by  nine,  and  those  that  frequent  great  men's 
levees  find  entertainment  at  them  till  eleven,  or,  as  at  Holland,  go  to  tea 
tables.  About  twelve,  the  beau-monde  assembles  in  several  coffee  or 
chocolate  houses  ;  the  best  of  which  are  the  Cocoa  Tree  and  White's 
chocolate  houses,  St.  James's,  the  Smyrna,  Mr.  Rochford's,  and  the 
British  coffee  houses  ;  and  all  these  so  near  one  another  that  in  less  than 
one  hour  you  see  the  company  of  them  all." 

This  sounds,  truly,  a  pleasant  enough  life; — and  its  counter- 
part of  the  present  day  is, — allowing  for  altered  customs, — no 
doubt  equally  pleasant.  The  taverns  mentioned  have  given 
place  to  spacious  club-houses,  all  more  or  less  modern ;  and 
the  day  has,  in  the  last  two  centuries,  come  to  begin  earlier 
and  end  later.  Coffee-houses,  in  Defoe's  time,  were  the 
necessary  ladders  to  rising  fame  talent ;  thus,  the  boy  Chatter- 
ton,  starving  and  unknown  in  cruel  London,  sought  to  allay 
his  mother's  anxiety  by  writing  to  her :  "  I  am  quite  familiar 
at  the  Chapter  coffee-house  (St.  Paul's),  and  know  all  the 
geniuses  there." 

In  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  Pall  Mall  was 
a  pretty  suburban  promenade,  and  its  "  sweet  shady  side," 
sung  by  the  poets,  was  really  no  misnomer,  as  a  row  of 


1 84  THE  POETRY  OF  ST.  JAMES'S  SQUARE  CHAP. 

elms  fringed  it,  both  north  and  south.  And  it  is  still  an  aristo- 
cratic region,  despite  the  "  business  "  air  that  has  of  late  invaded 
it.  Of  the  people  you  meet  here, — elderly  gentlemen  with 
nothing,  perhaps,  very  remarkable  about  them,  to  outward 
view ; — or  smart  young  men,  with  wTell-polished  boots  and 
hats,  and  faultless  dress -coats, — it  is  safe  to  say  that  a  fair 
number  will  have  distinguished  themselves  in  one  way  or 
another ;  either  in  the  working  of  their  country's  government, 
or  in  the  fighting  of  their  country's  battles  But,  here  as 
elsewhere,  England  is  uncommunicative,  and  you  may  pass 
angels  unawares. 

Just  behind  Pall  Mall  is  the  aristocratic  St.  James's  Square — 
already,  alas  !  invaded  by  the  modern  builder  : 

"  She  shall  have  all  that's  fine  and  fair, 
And  ride  in  a  coach  to  take  the  air, 
And  have  a  house  in  St.  James's  Square," — 

— runs  the  old  ballad.  Though  St.  James's  Square  now  con- 
tains a  fair  sprinkling  of  Government  and  other  offices, — yet 
its  clientele  is  still  somewhat  ducal.  Nevertheless,  this  Square, 
too,  recalls  something  of  the  seamy  side  of  life.  "  What," 
says  Lord  Rosebery,  referring  to  London's  many  associations, 
"  can  be  less  imposing,  or  less  interesting  in  themselves, — 
than  the  railings  of  St.  James's  Square?  Yet,  you  cannot 
touch  those  railings — hideous  as  they  are  and  dull  as  are  the 
houses  that  surround  them — without  thinking  that  Johnson  and 
Savage,  hungry  boys,  starved  by  their  kind  mother,  London, 
who  attracted  men  of  letters  to  her,  walked  round  that  square 
one  summer  night  and  swore  they  would  die  for  their 
country." 

Yes, — this,  in  some  way,  seems  "the  best  of  all  possible 
worlds," — and  London,  in  such  surroundings,  the  best  of  all 
possible  cities  to  live  in.  Yet,  here,  too,  the  East  is 
still  present  in  the  West.  Round  the  corner,  as  I  gaze, 
comes  a  pitiful  group, — a  tawdry  woman,  her  voice  raucous 


viii  THE  SEAMY  SIDE  185 

and  suggestive  of  gin,  holding  by  the  hand  two  children,  a 
boy  and  a  girl, — all  singing,  or  making  believe  to  sing,  in 
chorus  : 

"  'Ark  !  ar  ark,  my  sowl  !  Angelic  songs  are  swellin', 
From  Hearth's  green  fields — and  Hoceant's  way-be  shore — 
'Ark,  ar-ark, — " 

Alas  !  the  notes  are  hardly  suggestive  of  angelic  visitants. 
The  chubby  little  boy  is  crying,  the  tears  making  streaky  marks 
down  his  dirty  litde  face.  "  I'm  so  cowld,  so  cowld,  mammy," 
"  'Owld  yer  row  !  " — admonishes  his  sister,  in  the  intervals 
of  her  husky  accompaniment...  The  sodden  voice  of  the  mother 
is  so  terrible  that  I  am  moved  to  give  her  a  shilling  to  go  away 
and  remove  her  poor  suffering  babies.  .  .  .  But, — at  the  angle  of 
Waterloo  Place, —  another  phantom  is  stationed;  awretchedly- 
clothed  creature,  evidently  on  the  look-out  for  a  job.  He 
might  himself  be  an  incarnation  of  Famine.  His  cheeks  are 
hollow  and  cadaverous  ;  his  eyes-  are  dulled  and  hopeless  ;  he 
shivers  in  the  bleak  raw  December  air ; — in  the  "  best  of  all 
possible  worlds, — the  richest  of  all  possible  cities  "  .  .  .  .  The 
mere  "  cab-horse's  charter  "  is  not  for  such  as  he  !  Ungrateful 
country,  that  deals  so  ill  with  her  children,  giving  them  too 
often  "  stones  for  bread  !  " 

"  If  suddenly,"  says  Mr.  Ruskin,  "in  the  midst  of  the  enjoyments  of  the 
palate  and  lightnesses  of  heart  of  a  London  dinner-party,  the  walls  of  the 
chamber  were  parted,  and  through  their  gap  the  nearest  human  beings  who 
were  famishing  and  in  misery  were  borne  into  the  midst  of  the  company — 
feasting  and  fancy-free — if,  pale  with  sickness,  horrible  in  destitution, 
broken  by  despair,  body  by  body,  they  were  laid  upon  the  soft  carpet,  one 
beside  the  chair  of  every  guest,  would  only  the  crumbs  of  the  dainties  be 
cast  to  them — would  only  a  passing  glance,  a  passing  thought  be  vouchsafed 
to  them  ?  Vet  the  actual  facts,  the  real  relations  of  each  Dives  and  Lazarus, 
are  not  altered  by  the  intervention  of  the  house  wall  between  the  table  and 
the  sick-bed — by  the  few  feet  of  ground  (how  few  !)  which  are  indeed  all 
that  separate  the  merriment  from  the  misery." 

It  is  an  effective  contrast.  But,  perhaps  the  most  vivid 
and  pathetic  sketch  of  the  Submerged  of  the  Great  City  is 


186  "THE  LOAFER"  CH.  vin 

that  of  John  Davidson's  weird    and  haunting  ballad  :  "  The 

Loafer  "  : 

"  I  hang  about  the  streets  all  day, 

At  night  I  hang  about ; 
I  sleep  a  little  when  I  may, 

But  rise  betimes  the  morning's  scout  ; 
For  through  the  year  I  always  hear 
Afar,  aloft,  a  ghostly  shout. 

"  My  clothes  are  worn  to  threads  and  loops  ; 

My  skin  shows  here  and  there  ; 
About  my  face  like  seaweed  droops 

My  tangled  beard,  my  tangled  hair  ; 
From  cavernous  and  shaggy  brows 

My  stony  eyes  untroubled  stare. 

"  I  move  from  eastern  wretchedness 

Through  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand  ; 

And  as  the  pleasant  people  press 

I  touch  them  softly  with  my  hand, 

Perhaps  to  know  that  still  I  go 
Alive  about  a  living  land. 

"  I  know  no  handicraft,  no  art, 

But  I  have  conquered  fate  ; 
For  I  have  chosen  the  better  part, 

And  neither  hope,  nor  fear,  nor  hate. 
With  placid  breath  on  pain  and  death, 

My  certain  alms,  alone  I  wait." 


Speshul! 


CHAPTER  IX 

WESTMINSTER 

"  The  devout  King  destined  to  God  that  place,  both  for  that  it  was  near 
unto  the  famous  and  wealthy  City  of  London,  and  also  had  a  pleasant 
situation  amongst  fruitful  fields  lying  round  about  it,  with  the  principal 
river  running  hard  by,  bringing  in  from  all  parts  of  the  world  great  variety 
of  wares  and  merchandise  of  all  sorts  to  the  city  adjoining  ;  but  chiefly  for 
the  love  of  the  Chief  Apostle,  whom  he  reverenced  with  a  special  and 
singular  affection." — Contemporary  Life  of  Edivard  the  Confessor  in 
Harleian  MS. 

"  The  world-famed  Abbey  by  the  westering  Thames." — J\Iatthew 
Arnold. 

"Westminster  Abbey,"  said  Dean  Stanley,  "stands  alone 
amongst  the  buildings  of  the  world.  There  are,  it  may  be, 
some  which  surpass  it  in  beauty  or  grandeur  ;  there  are  others, 
certainly,  which  surpass  it  in  depth  and  sublimity  of 
association  ;  but  there  is  none  which  has  been  entwined  by  so 
many  continuous  threads  with  the  history  of  a  whole  nation." 

The   old   Abbey  of    Westminster,   is,    indeed,  in    itself  an 


i88  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  ABBEY  CHAP. 

epitome  of  English  history.  Elsewhere  in  London,  you  must 
dig  and  delve  for  it,  study  and  reconstruct ;  here,  you  have  it 
all  together,  a  chain  in  a  manner  unbroken,  from  Edward  the 
Confessor  to  the  latest  of  our  Hanoverian  Kings,  crowned 
here,  so  lately  and  so  splendidly,  in  the  place  of  his  fathers. 

The  church  has,  in  a  manner,  been  founded  many  times ; 
by  tradition,  by  rebuilding,  by  frequent  restoration  and  enlarge- 
ment. The  earliest  church,  or  temple,  on  this  ancient  site  is, 
indeed,  almost  lost  in  the  semi-fabulous  mists  of  early  history. 
To  all  famous  fanes,  the  after-years  have  a  tendency  to  ascribe 
legendary  and  miraculous  beginnings;  thus,  the  magic  haze 
that  surrounds  the  primitive  church  of  the  doubtful  Saxon 
King  Lucius  is  hardly  less  than  that  covering  the  Temple  of 
Apollo,  the  Sun-god,  said  to  exist  here  in  Roman  times.  At 
any  rate,  it  is  clear  that  on  this  favoured  spot,  once  the  little 
sandy  peninsula  of  "  Thorn ey  Island,"  was  an  early  sanctuary 
and  settlement,  both  Roman  and  Briton.  In  King  Sebert's 
time  the  mists  of  antiquity  lift,  but  still  slightly.  Sebert, 
King  of  the  East-Saxons,  was,  early  in  the  seventh  century, 
the  traditionary  founder  of  a  church  here,  dedicated  to  St. 
Peter.  According  to  the  story,  Sebert,  just  returned  from  a 
Roman  pilgrimage,  was  about  to  have  his  church  consecrated 
by  the  bishop,  Mellitus ;  when,  one  evening,  a  poor  Saxon 
fisher,  Edric,  who  was  watching  his  nets  along  the  shore,  saw, 
on  the  opposite  river  bank,  a  gleaming  light,  and,  approaching  it 
in  his  boat,  found  a  venerable  man  who  desired  to  be  ferried 
across  the  stream.  There,  the  mysterious  stranger  landed, 
and  proceeded  to  the  church,  where,  transfigured  with  light, 
and  attended  by  hosts  of  glittering  angels,  he  consecrated  it, 
being,  indeed,  no  other  than  St.  Peter  himself: 

"  Then  all  again  is  dark  ; 
And  by  the  fisher's  bark 
The  unknown  passenger  returning  stands. 

O  Saxon  fisher  I  thou  hast  had  with  thee 
The  fisher  from  the  Lake  of  Galilee — 


ix  THE  TOMB  OF  KING  SEBERT  189 

"  So  saith  he,  blessing  him  with  outspread  hands  ; 

Then  fades,  but  speaks  the  while  : 
At  dawnthon  to  King  Sebert  shalt  relate 

How  his  St.  Peter 's  Church  in  Thorney  Isle, 
Peter,  his  friend,  with  light  did  consecrate. " 

The  chronicle  relates  the  story  thus  : 

"  Know,  O  Edric,"  said  the  stranger,  while  the  fisherman's  heart  glowed 
within  him,  "  know  that  I  am  Peter.  I  have  hallowed  the  church  myself. 
To-morrow  I  charge  thee  that  thou  tell  these  things  to  the  Bishop,  who 
will  find  a  sign  and  token  in  the  church  of  my  hallowing.  And  for  another 
token,  put  forth  again  upon  the  river,  cast  thy  nets,  and  thou  shalt  receive 
so  great  a  draught  of  fishes  that  there  will  be  no  doubt  left  in  thy  mind. 
But  give  ont-tenth  to  this  my  holy  church." 

The  story  continues  that  Bishop  Mellitus,  on  hearing  Edric's 
miraculous  tale,  changed  the  name  of  the  place  from  Thorney 
Isle  to  West  Minster. 

The  tomb  of  the  first  traditionary  founder  of  St.  Peter's 
church  of  Westminster  is  still  shown  in  the  Abbey  to-day,  as  it 
has  been  shown  ever  since  the  time  of  its  erection.  Through 
all  the  vicissitudes  of  the  Abbey,  its  many  alterations  and 
restorations,  this  early  relic  has  always  been  treated  carefully 
and  with  respect.  The  King  of  the  East-Saxons  sleeps  in 
peace  in  the  choir,  with  his  wife  Ethelgoda  and  his  sister 
Ricula,  first  of  a  long  line  of  kings  and  potentates. 

But  if  Sebert  was  the  traditional  founder  of  the  Abbey, 
Edward  the  Confessor  was,  unquestionably,  its  real  founder. 
And,  for  that  matter,  the  legends  that  surround  the  mysterious 
Sebert  still  linger,  like  a  halo,  round  the  Confessor's  memory ; 
he  who  was,  we  are  told,  so  saintly,  that  being  one  day  at  mass 
in  the  ancient  minster,  he  saw  "  the  Saviour  appear  as  a  child, 
bright  and  pure  as  a  spirit."  Truly,  a  picturesque  age  to  live 
in  !  The  rebuilding  of  the  Confessor's  church  was,  as  in  the 
later  time  of  Rahere,  the  outcome  of  a  vision,  and  of  a  direct 
message  from  the  saint.  Edward,  said  St.  Peter,  must 
rebuild  the  ancient  minster  of  Thorney.  Edward  rebuilt  it, 


190  HENRY  VII. 'S  CHAPEL  CHAP. 

laying  the  foundation  stone  in  1049,  and  naming  it  "the 
Collegiate  Church  of  St.  Peter  of  Westminster."  It  was  the 
work  of  the  King's  life,  and  it  was  only  consecrated  eight 
days  before  his  death.  Of  the  Confessor's  chapel  and 
monastery  all  that  now  remains  is  the  present  "  Chapel  of  the 
Pyx,"  with  portions  of  the  Westminster  School  Buildings  and 
of  the  walls  of  the  South  Cloister.  For  Henry  III.,  the 
Abbey's  second  founder,  who  had  "  a  rare  taste  for  building  " 
pulled  down,  in  1245,  most  of  his  predecessor's  work,  and 
made  the  splendid  miracle-working  shrine  that  contains  the 
relics  of  the  royal  saint.  But  it  was  Henry  VII.,  in  1502, 
who  was  the  great  builder  and  transformer  of  the  Abbey. 
To  him  we  owe  the  fine  perpendicular  chapel  called  by  his 
name,  "  the  most  beautiful  chapel  in  the  world,"  the  one 
building  that  impresses,  at  first  sight,  every  visitor  to  London. 
Westminster  Abbey,  as  we  see  it  now,  is  probably  in  externals 
much  as  Henry  VII.  left  it,  except  for  the  addition  of  Wren's 
two  western  towers,  and  "  the  fact  that  in  the  middle  ages  it 
was  a  magnificent  apex  to  a  royal  palace,"  surrounded  "  by  a 
train  of  subordinate  offices  and  buildings,  and  with  lands 
extending  to  the  present  Oxford  Street,  Fleet  Street,  and 
Vauxhall." 

Yet,  without  any  of  its  former  palatial  accessories,  is  not  the 
gray  fret- work  of  Henry  VIIth;s  chapel,  as  it  breaks  on  the 
delighted  vision  of  the  traveller  down  Whitehall,  an  ever- 
renewed  joy  and  wonder?  To  Henry  Tudor  we,  owe  the 
union  of  the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster  ;  yet  we  remember 
him  far  more  by  this,  the  chapel  that  he  has  given  us  for  all 
time.  Truly,  he  too  must  have  had  "  a  rare  taste  in  building  !  " 
"  It  is  to  the  exaltation  of  the  building  art,"  says  Mr.  Ruskin, 
in  an  eloquent  passage,  "  that  we  owe  : 

— "  those  vaulted  gates.  .  .  .  those  window-labyrinths  of  twisted  tracery 
and  starry  light  ;  those  misty  masses  of  multitudinous  pinnacle  and  diademed 
tower  ;  the  only  witnesses,  perhaps,  that  remain  to  us  of  the  faith  and  fear 
of  nations.  All  else  for  which  the  builders  sacrificed,  has  passed  away — 


ix  THE  TEMPLE  OF  FAME  191 

all  their  living  interests,  and  aims,  and  achievements.  We  know  not  for 
what  they  laboured,  and  we  see  no  evidence  of  their  reward.  Victory, 
wealth,  authority,  happiness — all  have  departed,  though  bought  by  many  a 
bitter  sacrifice.  But  of  them,  and  their  life  and  their  toil  upon  the  earth, 
one  reward,  one  evidence,  is  left  to  us  in  those  gray  heaps  of  deep-wrought 
stone.  They  have  taken  with  them  to  the  grave  their  powers,  their 
honours,  and  their  errors  ;  but  they  have  left  us  their  adoration." 

But,  apart  from  the  beauty  of  its  architecture,  apart  from  the 
associations  and  traditions  of  its  early  history,  apart  from  its 
honour  as  the  place  of  coronations,  the  feeling  that  every  true 
Englishman  has  for  the  Abbey  of  Westminster  must  necessarily 
be  strong  ;  for  it  represents  to  him  not  only  the  essential 
spirit  of  his  mother-city ;  it  is  also,  in  a  sense,  his  national 
Valhalla, 

— "place  of  tombs, 
Where  lie  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men." — 

Here,  in  this  "  cathedral  close  of  Westminster,"  is  his  true 
fatherland.  This,  he  may  say,  is  his  national  Holy  of  Holies  ; 
the  sacred  spot : 

"  Wo  meine  Traiime  wandeln  gehn, 
Wo  meire  Todten  aufersteh'n." 

Here  he  may  feel  all  the  reverence,  all  the  love  for  his 
country,  that  is  ever  the  birthright  of  the  true  citizen.  For, 
not  only  kings,  queens,  and  nobles,  but  also  the  great  and 
mighty  in  art,  science,  literature,  are  buried  within  this  narrow 
space.  It  is  England's  Temple  of  Fame,  her  crowing  glory  of 
a  life  of  honour  and  merit.  The  "  immortal  dead  "  are  thus 
in  their  death  brought  near  to  each  one  of  us,  and  become  part 
of  our  special  family.  They  are  our  national  inheritance. 

Westminster  Abbey  is  "  the  silent  meeting-place  of  the  dead 
of  eight  centuries,"  the  "  great  temple  of  silence  and  recon- 
ciliation where  the  enmities  of  twenty  generations  lie  buried." 
Death  is  ever  the  great  peacemaker.  Round  the  mediaeval 
shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  in  its  faded  and  rifled 
splendour,  lie,  in  a  closely-joined  circle,  the  peaceful  Tombs  of 


192  THE  ETERNAL  PEACE-MAKER  CHAP. 

the  Kings  ;  sturdy  Plantagenets,  their  warfare  ended,  the 
features  of  their  effigies  composed  in  an  eternal  calm. 
They  sleep  well,  after  life's  fitful  fever  !  In  Henry  Vllth's 
chapel,  Mary  and  Elizabeth,  sisters  of  bitter  hate  and  strange 
destiny,  rest  together  in  a  contracted  sepulchre,  admitting  of 
none  other  occupant  but  they  two.  "  The  sisters  are  at  one  ; 
the  daughter  of  Catherine  of  Aragon  and  the  daughter  of  Anne 
Boleyn  repose  in  peace  at  last."  On  their  monument  is  the 
striking  inscription  :  an  inscription  placed  there  by  James  I. ; 
"  closing,"  said  Dean  Stanley,  "  the  long  war  of  the  English 
Reformation  : "  "  Regno  consortes  et  urna,  hie  obdormimus 
Elizabetha  et  Maria  sorores,  in  spe  resurrectionis."  And  those 
great  statesmen  of  a  later  age,  Pitt  and  Fox,  their  life-long 
rivalry  ended,  rest  in  the  north  transept,  dying  in  the  same 
year,  and  buried  close  together  : 

"  Here — taming  thought  to  human  pride — 
The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 
Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 
'Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier  ; 
O'er  Pitt's  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 
And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 
The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry — 
*  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die.'  " 

The  figure  of  William  Pitt,  Lord  Chatham,  in  parliamentary 
robes,  his  arm  outstretched  as  if  speaking,  rises  high  above  the 
surrounding  monuments  : 

"High  over  those  venerable  graves,"  says  Macaulay,  "towers  the 
stately  monument  of  Chatham,  and  from  above,  his  effigy,  graven  by  a 
cunning  hand,  seems  still,  with  eagle  face  and  outstretched  arm,  to  bid 
England  be  of  good  cheer,  and  to  hurl  defiance  at  her  foes." 

In  another  splendid  passage,  Macaulay  describes  the  later 
burial  of  the  son  near  the  father  : 

"  The  grave  of  Pitt  had  been  made  near  to  the  spot  where  his  great  father 
lay,  near  also  to  the  spot  where  his  great  rival  was  soon  to  lie.  .  .  . 
Wilberforce,  who  carried  the  banner  before  the  hearse,  described  the  awful 


ix  A  HIGHWAY  OF  TOMBS  193 

ceremony  with  deep  feeling.  As  the  coffin  descended  into  the  earth,  he 
said,  the  eagle  face  of  Chatham  from  above  seemed  to  look  down  with  con- 
sternation into  the  dark  house  which  was  receiving  all  that  remained  of  so 
much  power  and  glory." 

"The  silence  of  death,"  says  Dean  Stanley,  "breathes  here 
the  lesson  which  the  tumult  of  life  hardly  suffered  to  be 
heard." 

As,  then,  the  Appian  Way  was  to  the  Romans,  so  is  West- 
minster Abbey  to  us,  our  "Highway  of  Tombs."  As  the 
stranger  walks  along  the  vast  Nave  and  the  Transepts,  he 
passes  through  a  veritable  City  of  the  Dead,  commemorated 
here  by  every  kind  of  monument,  statue,  bust,  tablet,  cenotaph, 
tomb.  Here  are  now  no  more  the  simple  tombs  and  effigies 
of  the  earliest  time,  no  more  the  rich,  imposing  magnificence 
of  the  mediaeval  shrines,  but  a  later  efflorescence  of  sculpture 
and  ornament,  an  efflorescence  differing  as  widely  from  the 
severity  of  former  ages,  as  the  laudatory  epitaphs  differ  from 
the  simplicity  and  humility  of  the  early  inscriptions.  Justice 
and  Mercy,  Neptune  and  Britannia,  cherubs  and  clouds,  are 
generally  very  painfully  in  evidence,  and  in  their  vast  size  and 
depressing  ubiquity  testify  to  the  false  taste  of  their  day.  Nor 
are  the  monuments  always  deserved.  "  Some  day,"  said  Carlyle, 
cynically,  "  there  will  be  a  terrible  gaol-delivery  in  West- 
minster Abbey  ! "  The  worst  of  such  theatrical  sculpture  is, 
also,  that  it  always  takes  up  so  much  room ;  we,  in  our  day, 
should  often  be  glad  of  the  space  of  one  cloudlet, — of  one 
unnecessary  virtue, — for  the  modest  perpetuation  of  a  great 
man's  memory.  Who  now  recalls  the  merits  of  the  forgotten 
magnates  of  past  ages?  but  Dickens's  humble  grave-stone  is 
ever  freshly  tended,  bright  with  geranium  or  violet.  Ruskin's 
small  tablet  and  bas-relief  must  hang  in  a  dark,  unnoticed, 
corner,  and  Tennyson's  bust  is  relegated  to  a  pillar  of  Poet's 
Corner.  And  what  is  left,  one  may  ask,  of  our  National  Val- 
halla, for  the  great  names  of  a  future  age  ? 

The  solemn  dignity  of  the  Confessor's  Chapel,  and  of 

o 


194  PICTURESQUENESS  OF  THE  ABBEY  CHAP. 

Henry  Vllth's  beautiful  chapel  behind  it,  have,  after  the  crude 
monuments  of  the  Nave,  all  the  calm  of  a  secluded  byway 
after  the  clamour  of  a  noisy  street. 

Westminster  Abbey  is  full  of  beautiful  pictures.  On  a 
sunny  day,  especially,  the  play  of  light  and  shade  on  its  pillars, 
the  fretted  tracery  of  its  interlaced  arches,  the  fine  harmony  of 
its  proportions,  the  golden,  mellowing,  subdued  light  that 
enters  through  its  "  rose  "  windows,  the  colour  of  its  many 
tombs  and  rich  marbles,  that,  on  a  day  of  London  winter,  so 
beautifully  harmonises  with  the  whole,  may  well  tempt  many 
an  artist.  To  gain  the  full  glory  of  the  long  aisles  in  their 
aerial  perspective,  the  Abbey  should  be  seen  from  the  far  end 
of  the  Nave.  Everywhere  is  beauty ;  but  perhaps  one  of  the 
most  lovely  "  bits  "  in  the  church  is  that  furnished  by  the  three 
canopied  tombs  of  Henry  Ill's  family, — the  tombs  of  Edmund 
Crouchback,  Earl  of  Lancaster,  Countess  Aveline,  his  wife,  and 
Aymer  de  Valence.  These  three  tombs  make  a  charming 
picture  from  the  Sacrarium,  where  they  stand  ;  viewed,  too, 
from  the  aisle  just  beneath  them,  two  of  them  tower  up  grandly, 
to  their  full  height;  the  third,  however,  that  of  Aveline,  is 
hidden  from  the  aisle  by  an  ugly  eighteenth-century  monument. 
(Truly,  the  eighteenth  century  has  much  to  answer  for  !)  The 
lofty  pinnacles  of  these  tombs,  the  richness  of  their  sculptured 
foliage  and  crockets,  and  the  calmness  of  their  supported  effigies, 
are  very  impressive.  Among  other  strikingly  picturesque 
views  is  that  of  the  small  chapel,  or  rather,  doorway,  of  St. 
Erasmus,  dating  from  Richard  IPs  time,  a  low  arch  supported 
by  clustered  pillars ;  and  also  that  of  the  splendid  "  Chantry  oi 
Henry  V,"  towering  at  the  entrance  to  Henry  Vllth's  Chapel, 
above  the  royal  circle  of  tombs  on  either  side.  Over  the  Arch 
that  canopies  Henry's  tomb,  (an  arch  in  the  shape  of  the  letter 
"  H,")  is  the  iron  bar  with  the  king's  shield,  saddle  and  helmet, 
— the  helmet  which  we  would  fain  for  poetry's  sake,  think  to  be 

— "  that  casque  that  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt," 
— but  which  was,  probably,  merely  a  tilting-helmet  made  for  the 


ix  A  TOUR  OF  THE  CHAPELS  195 

funeral.  There  is  a  sad  humanity  about  these  blackened 
accoutrements  of  the  dead,  standing  out  against  the  golden 
half-light  of  the  dimly-seen  chapel  beyond,  hanging  so  long  in 
their  lofty  position  as  to  seem  a  part  of  the  Abbey  itself. 
Have  they  not,  before  now,  appealed  to  the  imagination  of 
many  a  Westminster  school- boy,  sitting  below  in  the  choir,  and 
set  him  wondering  about  those  old  Plantagenets  and  Tudors, 
who  seem  here  so  much  more  alive  and  human  than  in  the 
dull  pages  of  a  history-book  ? 

The  best  tombs  of  the  Abbey  are  only  free  and  open  to 
inspection  on  Mondays  and  Tuesdays  within  certain  hours; 
on  all  other  days,  they  are  locked  up,  and  people  are  only 
"  taken  round  "  them  at  stated  times  and  under  supervision. 
On  Mondays  and  Tuesdays  there  is,  mostly,  a  good  assembly 
of  sightseers  ;  and,  whether  one  choses  a  free  day,  full  of 
people,  or  whether  one  rather  elects  to  be  taken  round  on  a 
sixpenny  day  in  custody,  in  either  case  one  inevitably  loses 
much  of  the  charm  and  feeling  of  the  beautiful  old  church  and 
its  associations.  On  free  days,  boys  have  a  tendency  to  clatter 
distractingly  up  and  down  the  wooden  steps  that  lead  to  the 
Confessor's  Chapel,  with  other  diversions  natural  to  the 
juvenile  mind  ;  on  sixpenny  days,  you  go  in  and  out  with  the 
crowd  in  a  depressing  "  queue,"  while  each  chapel  in  turn  is 
unlocked  and  its  monuments  explained  in  a  sad  monotone. 
No  other  arrangement,  no  doubt,  is  possible ;  yet,  who  could 
penetrate  to  the  soul  of  the  Abbey  under  such  conditions  as 
these  ?  It  is  perhaps  not  unnatural  that  the  vergers,  who  have 
performed  the  office  so  often,  should  feel  a  certain  satiety  in 
the  process,  and  that  they  should  wish  to  hurry  the  visitor 
through  the  chapels  as  quickly  and  perfunctorily  as  may  be  ;  and 
yet,  how  charming  would  it  be  to  spend  a  long  afternoon  here, 
in  study  or  enjoyment,  undisturbed  !  In  an  unwashed  and 
noisy  crowd,  a  crowd  which  seems  to  imagine  that  the  Tombs 
of  the  Kings  are  a  species  of  Waxworks,  who  can  think,  or 
enjoy,  or  remember  ?  Moreover,  when  one  is,  so  to  speak,  "  in 

o   2 


196  "  A  SIXPENNY  DAY  "  CHAP. 

custody,"  one  must  always  be  very  careful  to  do  nothing  which 
may  draw  down  on  one's  self  the  suspicion  of  the  custodian.  In 
this  connexion  one  is  tempted  to  recall  the  story  told  of  a 
certain  too-conscientious  verger  in  one  of  our  provincial 
cathedrals.  A  devout  visitor  knelt  down  at  an  altar- tomb ;  an 
action  for  which  the  said  verger  promptly  reprimanded  him. 
"  I  was  only  praying,"  murmured  the  visitor,  rising  abashed. 
"Oh,  that  can't  be  allowed,"  said  the  verger;  "we  can't 
let  people  pray  about  wherever  they  like ;  that  would 
never  do" 

In  Westminster  Abbey  they  are  hardly  so  particular  ;  and  yet, 
something  of  this  same  sense  of  restriction  the  reverent  visitor 
to  the  ancient  edifice  also  experiences.  His  spirit  recoils  from 
locked  entrance  gates  and  tours  of  perfunctory  inspection,  and 
yearns  for  but  one  hour  of  the  "bliss  of  solitude,"  to  invoke, 
if  not  the  shades  of  the  mighty  dead,  at  least  something  of  the 
feeling  that  clings  round  their  memorial  chapels.  It  is  this 
feeling  that  Froude  has  so  well  described  :  "  Between  us  and 
the  old  English,"  he  says  in  an  eloquent  passage,  "  there  lies  a 
gulf  of  mystery  which  the  prose  of  the  historian  will  never 
adequately  bridge.  They  cannot  come  to  us,  and  our  imagina- 
tion can  but  feebly  penetrate  to  them.  Only  among  the  aisles 
of  the  cathedral,  only  as  we  gaze  upon  their  silent  figures 
sleeping  on  their  tombs,  some  faint  conceptions  float  before  us 
of  what  these  men  were  when  they  were  alive ;  and  perhaps  in 
the  sound  of  church  bells,  that  peculiar  creation  of ,  mediaeval 
age,  which  falls  upon  the  ear  like  the  echo  of  a  vanished  world." 

And  now  for  the  other  side  of  the  picture.  I  was  once,  on  a 
"  sixpenny  day,"  in  the  north  aisle  of  Henry  Vllth's  chapel, 
admiring  the  quaint  cradle-tomb  of  that  "  royal  rosebud "  of 
three  days  old, — Princess  Sophia, — and  pondering  over  that 
strange  curse  of  Stuarts  and  Tudors,  when  up  came  a  couple, 
'Any  and  'Arriet,  of  the  usual  cockney  honey-mooning  type. 
They  were  evidently  "doing"  the  London  monuments  in 
style,  and  eschewed  free  days.  The  bride  seemed  tired  and 


ix  FATE'S  IRONIES  197 

somewhat  apathetic;  she  evidently  had  to  be  kept   severely 
up  to  the  mark. 

"Funny  little  nipper,"  said  the  young  man  peeping  into 
the  cradle :  "  It's  a  won'erful  big  child  for  three  days  old," 
said  the  bride,  with  some  faint  show  of  interest ;  and,  my  ! 
how  silly  it  is  dressed  !  only  fancy,  a  cap  like  that  there  for 
a  byby  !  "  Then  they  turned  to  Queen  Elizabeth's  effigy  :  "  I 
don't  like  the  looks  of  'er,"  said  the  lady,  with  something 
between  a  shudder  and  a  giggle  :  "  I  come  over  jes'  now  so 
faint,"  she  continued,  her  pink  colour  fading  :  "  it's  'ardly'  'elthy 
in  'ere  with  all  these  corpses,  is  it  ?  .  .  Wax-works  is  much 
nicer ;  they  don't  give  yer  the  creeps  so.  Let's  go  and  'ave  a 
'bus  ride,  an'  give  the  old  Johnny  the  slip.  I  think  we've  'ad 
our  sixpennorth."  So  they  went,  but  alas  !  they  had  left  me 
their  desecration. 

Strange,  indeed,  are  Fate's  ironies  !  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
her  cousin,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  rest  in  the  two  side  aisles  of 
Henry  Vllth's  chapel  in  stately  tombs,  much  resembling  one 
another,  erected,  with  praiseworthy  impartiality,  to  his  "  dearest 
mother"  and  his  "dear  sister,"  by  King  James  I.  In  the 
Stuart  vault,  close  to  the  unhappy  Queen  of  Scots,  is  buried 
Lady  Arabella  Stuart,  "  childe  of  woe  " ;  that  poor  prisoner  of 
the  Tower,  separated  from  her  loved  and  just-wedded  husband 
and  kept  by  her  cousin  James  I.  in  durance  vile,  till  "her 
reason  left  her,"  and  she  died.  Even  in  death  her  disgrace 
followed  her,  when,  for  fear  of  being  thought  too  respectful  to 
one  "dying  out  of  royal  favour,"  the  authorities  dared  not 
even  provide  her  poor  body  with  an  adequate  coffin  !  Poor 
"  Ladie  Arbell !  "  Of  all  the  tragedies  of  English  history, 
none  are  sadder  or  more  cruel  than  hers,  or  reflect,  more 
vividly,  the  inhumanity  of  the  time. 

The  interior  of  Henry  Vllth's  Chapel, — in  its  darkened  glory 
of  golden  light,  with  its  fretted  roof,  its  "  walls  wrought  into 
universal  ornament,"  its  many  statues  and  sculptures,  and 
contrasted  dark  oak  choir  stalls,  with  the  banners  of  their 


198  THE  MAUSOLEUM  OF  THE  TUDORS  CHAP. 

owners,  the  Knights  of  the  Bath,  hanging  overhead, — is  very 
fine.  In  the  centre  of  the  chapel  is  the  magnificent  tomb  of 
Henry  VII,  the  third  founder  of  the  Abbey,  who,  with  much 
of  the  feeling  of  the  men  who  built  the  Pyramids,  determined 
this  as  the  splendid  mausoleum  of  his  race.  The  monument, 
enclosed  by  a  screen,  or  "closure,"  of  gilt  copper,  is  by 
Torregiano.  Here,  with  Henry,  is  buried  his  wife,  Elizabeth 
of  Yoik,  in  marriage  with  whom  the  king  finally  united  the 
York  and  Lancaster  cause.  Hither  was  brought  in  state,  in 
1502,  the  body  of  this  last  Queen  of  the  House  of  York,  dead  at 
twenty-seven,  her  waxen  effigy,  with  dishevelled  hair  and  Royal 
robes,  lying  outside  her  coffin  : 

"The  first  stone  of  the  splendid  edifice  founded  by  Henry  VII,  and 
which  was  to  contain  all  the  glory  of  his  race,  had  only  been  laid  a  month 
when  his  wife,  Elizabeth  of  York,  died.  She  lies  in  its  first  grave.  More 
wrote  an  elegy  on  the  Queen,  who  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  child  in  the 
Tower  :— 

"  Adieu,  sweetheart !  my  little  daughter  late, 

Thou  shalt,  sweet  babe,  such  is  thy  destiny, 

Thy  mother  never  know  ;  for  here  I  lie. 

At  Westminster,  that  costly  work  of  yours, 

Mine  own  dear  lord,  I  now  shall  never  see." 

In  front  of  the  chantry  of  his  grandparents,  is  the  altar-tomb 
of  Edward  VI.,  the  boy-king  of  sixteen,  "  flower  of  the  Tudor 
name " ;  a  small  portion  of  the  frieze  of  his  ancient  monu- 
ment, also  by  Torregiano,  has  survived  Republican  zeal,  and 
has  been  let  into  the  more  modern  structure. 

In  one  of  the  five  small  apsidal  chapels  at  the  eastern  ex- 
tremity of  the  Abbey  is  Dean  Stanley's  fine  monument,  a 
recumbent  figure,  by  Boehm.  Here,  in  the  "  farthest  east "  of 
the  Abbey  that  they  so  loved  and  lived  in,  he  and  his  wife, 
Lady  Augusta,  "  devoted  servant  of  her  Queen,"  rest  until  the 
judgment  day.  The  Duke  of  Buckingham's  huge  tomb,  that 
almost  blocks  another  of  these  small  chapels,  is  picturesque : 
and  near  it,  on  the  floor  of  the  main  building,  is  a  blue  slab 
simply  inscribed  with  the  name  of  "  Elizabeth  Claypole." 


ix  THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  KINGS  199 

Close  to  the  great  shrine  of  Henry  and  Elizabeth  rests  peace- 
fully this  favourite  daughter  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  the  only 
member  of  her  family  suffered  to  remain  in  the  Abbey  after 
the  Restoration,  when  the  mouldering  bodies  of  her  father  and 
his  myrmidons  were  exhumed  and  hanged  at  Tyburn,  showing 
the  furious  brutality,  unconquered  even  by  death,  of  the 
— <(  foolish  people,  unsounde  and  ever  untreue." 

The  "great  Temple  of  Silence  and  Reconciliation,"  that 
had  condoned  so  many  even  greater  wrongs,  has,  here  alone, 
failed  to  protect  its  dead. 

Henry  Vllth's  Chapel  is  now  mainly  used  for  such  functions 
as  the  yearly  convocation  of  the  bishops,  and  for  early  bi-weekly 
services  for  the  deanery  and  its  precincts,  &c.  Its  banners  are 
decaying,  its  stalls  are  no  longer  used  by  the  "  Knights  of  the 
Bath  "  ;  and  the  last  banner  placed  here  was  that  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  in  1804. 

As  Henry  Vllth's  Chapel  is  the  mausoleum  of  the  Tudors, 
so  is  Edward  the  Confessor's  Chapel  that  of  the  Plantagenets. 
Here  the  whole  space,  indeed,  is  "  paved  with  kings,  queens,  and 
princes,  who  all  wished  to  rest  as  near  as  possible  to  the  miracle- 
working  shrine."  In  the  royal  ring  of  tombs,  the  treasure,  the 
jewels,  the  gilt-bronze  accessories,  and,  in  some  cases,  the  arms 
and  even  the  heads  of  the  effigies  have  been  raided  at  some 
past  time.  The  beautiful  effigy  of  Eleanor  of  Castile,  wife  of 
Edward  I,  that  "  queen  of  good  memory  "  who  accompanied 
her  lord  to  the  Crusades,  and  in  honour  to  whom  nine  monu- 
mental crosses  were  erected  in  London,  still,  however,  remains 
intact.  "  The  beautiful  features  of  the  dead  queen  are 
expressed  in  the  most  serene  quietude ;  her  long  hair  waves 
from  beneath  the  circlet  on  her  brow."  Edward  I,  the  greatest 
of  the  Plantagenets,  lies  near  on  a  bare  altar-tomb  of  grey 
marble ;  a  plain  monument  for  so  great  and  glorious  a  being. 
On  the  north  side  are  the  words  :  uScotorum  Malleus  "  (the 
Hammer  of  the  Scots).  At  the  head  of  Eleanor,  his  daughter- 
in-law,  lies  Henry  III,  the  "  second  founder  "  of  the  Abbey ; 


200  THE  CORONATION  CHAIRS  CHAP. 

"quiet  Henry  III,  our  English  Nestor,"  who  reigned  fifty  six 
years  ;  his  effigy  is  of  gilt  brass.  Katherine  of  Valois,  widow  of 
Henry  V,  the  ancestress  of  the  Tudor  line,  rests  under  the  altar  of 
her  husband's  chantry  ;  she  it  was  whose  mummified  corpse 
Pepys  records  that  he  kissed  in  1668,  "reflecting  upon  it  that 
I  did  kiss  a  queene."  Queen  Philippa  of  Hainault,  her  husband 
Edward  III,  and  the  luckless  Richard  II,  complete  the  royal 
circle. 

Just  in  front  of  the  screen  that  stands  at  the  foot  of  the 
Confessor's  shrine,  are  the  Coronation  Chairs.  The  most 
battered  and  ancient  of  these  is  the  old  coronation  chair  of 
Edward  I,  enclosing  the  famous  "  Prophetic  Stone  "  or  "  Stone 
of  Destiny,"  of  Scone ;  concerning  which  the  Scots  believed,  that 
wherever  it  was  carried  the  supreme  power  would  go  with  it. 
Edward  I.  brought  it  from  Scotland  in  1297,  in  token  of  the 
complete  subjugation  of  that  country.  Every  English  monarch 
since  then  has  been  crowned  in  this  chair,  and  Queen  Victoria 
used  it  at  her  Jubilee  service.  The  second  coronation  chair, 
(made  for  Queen  Mary  II,  wife  of  William  III),  is  only  used 
when  kings  and  queens  are  crowned  together :  it  was  used 
for  Queen  Adelaide  in  1831  ;  and  lately  for  Queen  Alexandra. 

Opposite  the  wooden  staircase  that  descends  from  the 
Confessor's  Chapel  to  the  ambulatory  below,  a  small  doorway 
leads  to  the  Islip  Chapel ;  where  on  "  free  "  days,  the  "  Wax 
Effigies  "  may  be  seen.  This  curious  and  ghoul-like  collection 
is  the  outcome  of  a  custom  dating  from  ancient  times ;  the 
custom  of  carrying  in  funeral  procession,  first,  the  embalmed 
body  open  on  the  bier,  and  subsequently,  the  wax  effigy,  or 
portrait  model,  for  the  crowd  to  gaze  at ;  the  effigy  to  rest 
beside  the  tomb  or  monument.  Remains  of  such  effigies, 
broken,  mutilated  and  often  unrecognisable,  are  extant  even  as 
far  back  as  Queen  Philippa's  time ;  these  ghastly  fragments  are 
however,  not  on  general  view.  Eleven  wax  figures  still  remain  ; 
dirty,  but  in  a  tolerable  state  of  preservation ;  they  suggest  a 
very  grimy  and  antiquated  Chamber  of  Horrors.  Presumably 


ix  THE  WAX  EFFIGIES  201 

taken  from  life,  or,  in  some  cases,  from  a  cast  after  death,  they 
are  invaluable  as  contemporary  likenesses.  Charles  II,  an 
unpleasantly  yellow,  ogling  creature  in  wig  and  feathered  hat, 
a  ghoulish  dandy  with  the  well-known  "  drop "  in  his  cheeks, 
confronts  us  at  the  top  of  a  narrow  wooden  stair.  If  it  be 
difficult  to  imagine  his  fascinations, — those  of  his  neighbour, 
"  La  Belle  Stuart,"  are  a  trifle  more  suggestive  ;  yet  here  the 
lady  is,  surely,  no  longer  very  young ;  and  we  can  hardly 
connect  her  with  the  figure  of  "  Britannia  "  on  our  pence,  for 
which  it  is  said  she  consented  to  sit  as  model.  Queen  Anne's 
effigy  (she  died  at  fifty)  is,  possibly,  flattering ;  or  it  may  be  a 
more  youthful  portrait.  Her  sad,  pale  face,  in  her  gorgeous 
dress,  suggest  remembrances  of  her  eighteen  dead  children, 
buried  in  the  Stuart  Vault  of  Henry  Vllth's  chapel,  about  the 
co(jin  of  the  Queen  of  Scots ;  "  pressing  in  and  around,  with 
their  accumulated  weight,  the  illustrious  dust  below."  Strange 
doom  of  the  Stuart  race  !  Were  these  people  merely  human  and 
not  royal,  would  not  such  afflictions  win  our  sympathy  ?  We  hear 
of  James  II.'s  faults — history  is  reticent  about  his  eleven  dead 
children  ;  of  "  Good  Queen  Anne's  "  virtues, — hardly  a  word  as 
to  her  maternal  grief.  Poor,  kindly,  amiable  queen  !  as  she 
sits  here  in  her  tarnished  grandeur,  she  seems,  of  a  truth, 
overpowered  by  the  "  load," 

— "  wellnigh  not  to  be  borne, 
Of  the  too  great  orb  of  her  fate." 

Mary  II.,  a  big  woman,  nearly  six  feet  in  height,  towers  over 
her  small  husband,  William  III.,  who,  nevertheless,  stands  on  a 
footstool  beside  her.  Most  witch-like  of  all  is  the  effigy  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  (a  restoration  of  the  Chapter,  in  1760,  of  the  original 
figure  carried  at  her  funeral,  which  had  by  then  fallen  to  pieces). 
The  portrait  is  evidently  from  a  cast  taken  after  death,  for  it 
suggests  the  wasting  of  disease,  the  anguish  of  suffering.  The 
Queen  seems  haunted  and  hag-ridden  ;  the  wizened  and  weird 
appearance  of  the  figure  is  in  horrid  contrast  with  its  gay  attire ; 
the  high-heeled,  gold  shoes  with  rosettes,  stomacher  covered 


202  THE  CLOISTERS  CHAP. 

with  jewels,  and  huge  ruff  of  the  time.  A  strange  experience, 
indeed,  is  this  "  Islip  Chapel  " ;  and  one  that  leaves  a  lasting 
impression  ! 

The  small  chapels  round  the  Confessor's  shrine,  separated 
from  it  by  the  Ambulatories,  are  filled  with  interesting 
mediaeval  tombs,  and  some  brasses  of  great  beauty.  In  one  of 
them  is  the  eighteenth-century  monument  of  Lady  Elizabeth 
Nightingale,  by  Roubiliac,  so  popular  among  the  Abbey 
sightseers.  This  theatrical  figure  of  the  skeleton  Death 
hurling  a  dart  at  the  dying  lady,  so  affrighted,  says  tradition, 
an  intending  robber,  that  he  fled  in  terror,  leaving  his  crowbar 
behind.  And  I  can  never  leave  the  Abbey  without  admiring 
that  lovely  figure  of  the  beggar  girl  holding  a  baby,  in  the 
North  Transept,  that  commemorates,  among  surrounding 
politicians  and  soldiers,  the  charities  of  a  certain  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Warren,  dead  in  1816. 

How  dazzlingly  the  sunlight  of  London  gleams  upon  us,  as 
we  leave  the  twilight  of  the  Abbey  !  We  may  quit  it  by  the 
small  door  of  "  Poet's  Corner,"  that  door  where  poor,  ill-used, 
foolish  Queen  Caroline  beat  in  vain  and  undignified  effort  for 
admittance  to  and  participation  in  her  cruel  husband's  coro- 
nation ;  dying,  one  short  fortnight  afterwards,  "  of  a  broken 
heart."  From  Poet's  Corner  we  enter  upon  a  pleasant  green 
sward,  diversified  by  the  flying  buttresses  that,  in  grand  black- 
ness of  London  smoke,  support  the  Chapter-House  ;  emerging, 
presently,  into  the  strange  twentieth-century  bustle  and  din  of 
Victoria-Street.  Or,  going  out  through  the  front  entrance  in 
the  North  Transept,  ("  Solomon's  Porch,")  we  come  upon  St. 
Margaret's  Church,  that  building  which,  beautiful  in  itself, 
renders  such  service  to  the  Abbey,  by  presenting  it  to  the  eye 
in  its  true  proportions.  The  ancient  cloisters,  part  of  which 
date  from  the  early  conventual  buildings  here,  (a  Benedictine 
house  connected  with  the  foundation  of  the  first  minster),  may 
be  reached,  either  through  a  door  from  the  South  Aisle,  or 
through  the  neighbouring  "  Dean's  Yard,"  a  pleasant  square  of 


ix  THE  JERUSALEM  CHAMBER  203 

old-fashioned  houses,  where  from  time  immemorial  the  merry 
Westminster  boys  have  played.  If  the  visitor  be  of  an 
antiquarian,  or  historical,  turn  of  mind,  he  may  now  penetrate 
to  the  old  "  Chapel  of  the  Pyx,"  a  remnant  of  the  earliest 
times,  and  the  ancient  treasure-house  of  England's  Kings ;  or 
to  the  Chapter-House,  an  octagonal  chamber,  now  restored 
to  its  pristine  beauty  by  judicious  restoration.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  he  merely  prefer  to  wander  vaguely,  every  turn  of  the 
cloisters  will  present  to  him  a  new  and  charming  picture. 
Especially  in  spring  are  these  cloisters  delightful,  when  the  old 
trees  of  the  courts  and  closes  put  on  their  early  green,  an 
innocent  green  that  contrasts  so  poetically  with  the  crumbling 
grime  of  the  ancient  walls.  It  is  the  eternal  contrast  of  Life 
and  of  Death.  In  this  favoured  spot,  the  Canons'  houses,  the 
old  School  of  Westminster,  and  the  ecclesiastical  precincts 
generally,  are  all  entangled  in  a  labyrinth  of  cloisters,  difficult 
to  thread,  save  to  the  elect.  School  and  church  buildings, 
cloisters,  picturesque  byways  and  back  streets,  seem  all  here 
inextricably  confused ;  but  this  only  renders  the  locality  the 
more  attractive.  Suddenly,  you  come  upon  a  brass  door,  an- 
nouncing, in  spotless  metal,  "  The  Deanery."  It  is  in  a  quiet 
court,  built  up  under  the  Abbey's  very  shadow  ;  and  here, 
facing  you,  is  the  famous  "  Jerusalem  Chamber,"  a  most 
picturesque  building  outside,  with  ancient,  crumbling,  (happily 
not  "restored,")  stones,  and  painted  glass  windows.  Here, 
as  told  in  Shakespeare,  King  Henry  IVth  died : 

King  Henry  :     "  Doth  any  name  particular  belong 

Unto  the  lodging  where  I  first  did  swoon  ?  " 
Warwick  :          "  'Tis  called  Jerusalem,  my  noble  lord." 
King  Henry  :     "  Laud  be  to  God  !  even  there  my  life  must  end  ; 
It  hath  been  prophesied  to  me  many  years 
I  should  not  die  but  in  Jerusalem, 
Which  vainly  I  supposed  the  Holy  Land  ; 
But  bear  me  to  that  chamber  ;  there  I'll  lie  ; 
In  that  Jerusalem  shall  Harry  die." 

Henry  IVth,  Act  IV,  Sc.  4. 


204  DEAN'S  YARD  CHAP. 

The  Deanery  is  a  low  gabled  building,  with  a  charming 
old-world  air.  Further  on  is  a  small  enclosure  called  "  Little 
Cloisters;"  a  tiny  secluded  court  where  the  clergy  of  the 
Abbey  live.  Here  is  a  curious  tablet  that  records  the  death 
of  a  poor  sufferer  "  who  through  ye  spotted  veil  of  ye  small- 
pox rendered  up  his  pure  and  unspotted  soul."  Reached 
from  Dean's  Yard  by  a  vaulted  passage  and  an  ancient  gate, 
is  Little  Dean's  Yard,  where  is  the  classic  gateway  to  West- 
minster School. 

The  cloisters,  like  the  Abbey  itself,  contain  many  monu- 
ments and  inscriptions.  One  in  particular,  "  Jane  Lister,  dear 
childe,  1688 "  charmed  Dean  Stanley,  as  recalling,*  in  its 
simplicity,  the  early  monuments  of  the  catacombs. 

The  blackened,  time-honoured  houses  of  Dean's  Yard  are 
now  varied  by  some  new  private  mansions.  Part  of  the 
square  is  now  occupied  by  "  Church  House,"  a  kind  of  large 
ecclesiastical  club  and  office.  Its  main  portion,  which  ex- 
tends far  back  into  neighbouring  streets  and  purlieus,  is  of 
cheerful  red  brick. 

The  narrow  streets  of  Westminster  are  curious  and  interest- 
ing, if  occasionally  just  a  trifle  "  slummy."  They  are  generally 
old,  tortuous,  and  picturesque ;  but  the  old,  as  in  other  parts 
of  London,  is  gradually  being  displaced  by  the  new.  West- 
minster is  now  much  sought  after  as  a  residential  neighbour- 
hood ;  building  is  increasing  there,  and  rents  are  proportionately 
rising.  The  houses  are  often  much  shadowed  and  built  up 
to,  yet,  here  and  there,  charming  views  of  the  Abbey  and  its 
precincts  almost  compensate  for  want  of  light.  The  too 
ubiquitous  "  flats  "  and  "  mansions  "  are  multiplying  here  as 
elsewhere;  but  Cowley  Street  has  still  an  old  world  charm, 
and  Queen  Anne's  Gate  has  its  attractions.  On  the  Whitehall 
side,  the  late  removal  of  the  obstructing  Parliament- Street,  and 
the  rebuilding  of  Government  offices,  have  made  great 
structural  alterations. 

Just  outside  the  Abbey  is   "  Broad  Sanctuary,"  a  name  that 


ix  WESTMINSTER  HALL  205 

commemorates  the  ancient  rights  and  powers  of  the  Church  in 
protecting  political  victims  and  offenders  from  the  law.  "  The 
Sanctuary  "  in  mediaeval  times  was  a  square  Norman  tower, 
containing  two  cruciform  chapels.  Here  did  that  poor  Queen, 
Elizabeth  Woodville,  wife  of  Edward  IV.,  seek  refuge  twice  in 
her  chequered  and  mournful  life ;  it  was  on  her  second  flight 
hither,  in  her  widowhood,  with  all  her  children,  that  her 
"  young  princes,  her  tender  babes,"  were  dragged  away  from 
her  to  be  murdered  by  their  uncle  Richard  of  Gloucester. 

In  all  the  structural  alterations  of  Westminster,  its  old  Hall, 
built  first  by  William  Rufus,  has  always  mercifully  been  spared. 
It  was  rebuilt  by  Richard  II,  who,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  such 
a  monument,  deserved  of  England  a  better  fate.  This  Hall, 
which  has  witnessed  more  tragedies  than  any  other  London 
building,  is  principally  famous  to  us  as  the  place  of  trial  of 
Charles  Stuart,  King  of  England,  1649.  Here,  with  the  Naseby 
banners  hanging  over  his  devoted  head,  Charles  showed  all  that 
firmness  and  control  that  had  been  so  conspicuously  lacking  in 
his  life.  Macaulay  describes  it  thus  : 

"The  great  hall  of  William  Rufus,  the  hall  which  had  resounded  with 
acclamations  at  the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings :  the  hall  which  had 
witnessed  the  just  sentence  of  Bacon  and  the  just  absolution  of  Somers ; 
the  hall  where  the  eloquence  of  Strafford  had  for  a  moment  awed  and 
melted  a  victorious  party  inflamed  with  just  resentment ;  the  hall  where 
Charles  had  confronted  the  High  Court  of  Justice  with  the  placid  courage 
which  has  half  redeemed  his  fame." 

On  Barry's  enormous  Gothic  Palace,  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment— Time,  which  does  so  much  both  for  the  London  build- 
ings and  for  the  opinions  of  Londoners, — will  no  doubt  deliver 
a  favourable  verdict.  Its  florid  richness  of  decoration,  unsuit- 
able, say  art  critics,  to  such  a  vast  building,  was  in  imitation  of 
Henry  Vllth's  miniature  chapel  opposite.  Its  galleries  and 
courts,  almost  as  labyrinthine  as  the  Westminster  cloisters, 
require  a  long  experience  to  understand  and  unravel.  That 
Sir  Charles  Barry  has  worked  Westminster  Hall  into  his  newer 


Victoria.  Tower,   Westminster. 


CH.  ix  "  THE  MOTHER  OF  PARLIAMENTS  "  207 

palace,  entitles  him  to  our  respect  and  gratitude.  In  Old 
Palace  Yard  is  that  equestrian  statue  of  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion 
that  has  won  so  much  praise  from  the  greatest  of  our  art  critics. 
Old  Palace  Yard,  too,  has  tragic  associations.  It  was  here  that 
the  Gunpowder  Plot  conspirators  suffered  death,  opposite  the 
windows  of  the  house  through  which  they  had  carried  the  gun- 
powder into  the  cellars  under  the  threatened  House  of  Lords. 
Here,  also,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  executed  in  1618. 

Where  Barry's  palace  now  stands,  stood,  from  Anglo-Saxon 
days  till  Henry  VHIth's  time,  the  ancient  palace  of  the  English 
Kings ;  and  here,  in  their  very  palace,  grew  the  germ  of  those 
Houses  of  Parliament  that  gradually  came  to  occupy  the  entire 
area.  The  Star  Chamber,  the  Painted  Chamber,  St.  Stephen's 
Chapel,  were  parts  of  the  old  building  made  familiar  to  us  by 
association  and  by  history.  The  ancient  palace  was  safe  under  the 
shadow  of  its  abbey  and  sanctuary,  till  Henry  VI 1 1,  who  defied  both 
abbey  and  sanctuary,  actuated  by  Naboth-like  desire  of  posses- 
sion, moved  his  residence  to  Whitehall.  The  Whitehall  palace  is 
gone  as  if  it  had  never  been  ;  but  that  of  Westminster  has  risen 
again  from  its  ashes.  This  sacred  spot  was  the  place  of  our 
national  liberties  ;  here  arose  the  "  Mother  of  Parliaments." 

Not  long  ago,  I  was  standing  on  Westminster  Bridge  in  the 
gathering  twilight ;  the  misty  glory  of  a  fine  winter's  day.  The 
river  edges  were  sprinkled  with  a  thin  crust  of  silvery  frost,  the 
dulled  red  sun  was  going  down  in  splendour  behind  a  galaxy 
of  pink  and  golden  clouds.  Insensibly,  as  the  light  faded,  and 
the  mist  rose,  I  seemed  to  lose  the  forms  of  the  modern  buildings, 
and  to  see,  as  though  in  a  vision,  the  "  Thorney  Isle  "  of  the 
dim  past.  The  huge  "  New  Palace  of  Westminster,"  with  its 
towers,  was  for  a  moment  blotted  out.  .  .  .  There,  in  the 
dreamy  haze  of  sunset,  I  saw 

—"the  Minster's  outlined  mass 
Rise  dim  from  the  morass." 

-  That,  surely,  was  no  longer  the  Terrace  of  the  House  of 


208  THE  BREAKING  OF  A  DREAM  CHAP. 

Commons,  but  a  marshy  bed  of  osiers  and  rushes  !  The  dark 
shadow  yonder,  across  the  broad  river,  was  it  any  more  the  grimy, 
disused  Lambeth  landing-stage,  or  had  it  changed  to  the  rude 
primitive  boats  of  the  Saxon  fisher-folk,  "  moored  among  the 
bulrush  stems  "  ?  The  clamour  yonder, — was  it  the  shouting  of 
drunken  bargees,  or  merely  the  voices  of  simple  peasants,  busy 
with  their  nets,  singing  the  evening  hymn  ?.  .  .  .  And  was  that  a 
barge  being  towed  up  stream,  or  was  it  not,  rather,  a  boat  cross- 
ing to  the  nearer  shore,  with  its  unknown,  saintly  passenger  ? 
Then,  suddenly,  a  blaze  of  light  irradiating  the  gloom — is  it  the 
miraculous  glow  from  the  consecrated  Minster,  or  .... 

I  start,  for  some  one  touches  me  gently  on  the  shoulder.  I 
turn  round,  half  expecting  to  see  a  Saxon  hind  in  leather 
jerkin  and  thonged  sandals  ....  But  a  modern  lamplighter 
with  tall  pole  pushes  past  me,  and— 

"  Please,  lydy,  gimme  suthin'  jis'  to  keep  the  life  in  my 
little  by  by,"  wails  the  voice  of  the  professional  beggar,  break- 
ing the  spell,  and  disclosing  an  unhappy,  shawled,  and  croupy 
infant.  "  I  ain't  got  a  place  ter  sleep  in  this  night.  Gawd 
knows  I  ain't,  dear  lydy." 

The  woman's  appearance  suggests  the  public-house,  and  I 
realise  all  the  sinfulness  of  encouraging  croupy  (and  possibly 
borrowed)  babies  to  be  out  at  unseasonable  hours  ;  neverthe- 
less, the  simpler  Anglo-Saxon  mood  prevails,  and  the  woman 
gets  my  sixpence.  She  departs  with  husky  blessings  .  .  .  and 
a  chorus  of  coughs.  "  Ah,  poor  soul,"  I  thought  as  I  watched 
the  wretched  creature  disappear  to  the  shadow  of  some  yet 
darker  archway,  "  would  not  you,  and  such  as  you,  have  found 
better  shrift  in  old  days  ? — There  was  the  convent ; — there 
the  sanctuary ;  there  the  gracious,  unquestioning  succour ; 
there  the  majestic  houses  of  the  Father  of  Mankind  and  His 
special  servants.  .  .  .  And  ever  at  the  sacred  gates  sat  Mercy, 
pouring  out  relief  from  a  never-failing  store  to  the  poor  and 
the  suffering ;  ever  within  the  sacred  aisles  the  voices  of  holy 
men  were  pealing  heavenwards  in  intercession  for  the  sins  of 


IX  IDEAL  AND  ACTUAL  209 

mankind  ;  and  such  blessed  influences  were  thought  to  exhale 
around  those  mysterious  precincts,  that  even  the  poor  outcasts 
of  society, — the  debtor,  the  felon,  and  the  outlaw — gathered 
round  the  walls  as  the  sick  men  sought  the  shadow  of  the 
apostles,  and  lay  there  sheltered  from  the  avenging  hand,  till 
their  sins  were  washed  from  off  their  souls.  .  .  ." 

But  the  vision  has  fled — the  present  once  more  dominates. 
.  .  .  Now  the  lights  begin,  in  serried  rows  and  twinkling 
patterns,  to  glow  along  the  shores  of  the  vast  and  deceptive 
Armida-palace  ;  the  "  cruel  lights  of  London,"  hiding  so  much 
that  is  grim,  sad,  and  terrible.  .  .  .  There,  grey  against  a 
background  of  rosy  opal,  the  Houses  of  Parliament  rise  from 
the  silvery  river  in  misty  grandeur.  .  .  .  Then,  gradually  the 
"  nocturne  "  changes  its  key  ;  the  darkness  deepens,  and  the 
Westminster  towers  begin  to  loom  up  blackly  against  the  lurid 
sky.  .  .  .  Big  Ben  booms  solemnly  through  the  invading 
mist.  .  .  .  For  how  many  centuries,  I  wondered,  has  the 
evening  bell  resounded  over  the  marshes  of  Thorney  ?  Only 
in  the  lapse  of  time  it  has  somewhat  changed  its  note.  .  .  . 
Convent  bell, — church  bell, — secular  bell !  It  calls  now  no 
longer  to  prayer  and  devotion,  but  to  business,  or,  maybe, 
pleasure  ...  as  the  blaze  of  light  that  now  shines  from  its 
tower  flashes  forth  the  might  of  the  Temporal  power,  not  the 
miraculous  workings  of  the  Eternal.  .  .  .  Yet,  "the  Lord 
God  of  Israel,  he  slumbers  not,  nor  sleeps."  .  .  .  How  loudly 
the  strokes  peal  !  .  .  .  One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  . 
four.  .  .  . 

"  Move  on,  please,"  sounds  the  voice  of  the  burly  policeman, 
evidently  suspecting  my  motives,  and  accrediting  me  with 
suicidal  intentions.  "  Can't  stay  'ere  all  night,  y'know." 

So  I  "  move  on  "  ;  and  Night,  and  the  river-mist,  between 
them  envelop,  as  with  a  pall,  the  enormous  city. 


CHAPTER   X 

KENSINGTON    AND    CHELSEA 

"  In  old  days.  .  .  .  the  hawthorn  spread  across  the  fields  and  market 
gardens  that  lay  between  Kensington  and  the  river.  Lanes  ran  to  Chelsea, 
to  Fulham,  to  North  End,  where  Richardson  once  lived  and  wrote  in  his 
garden-house.  The  mist  of  the  great  city  hid  the  horizon  and  dulled  the 
sound  of  the  advancing  multitude  ;  but  close  at  hand  ....  were  country 
corners  untouched — blossoms  instead  of  bricks  in  spring-time,  summer  shade 
in  summer." — Miss  Thackeray,  Old  Kensington. 

"  There  is  not  a  step  of  the  way,  from  ....  Kensington  Gore  to  .  ... 
Holland  House,  in  which  you  are  not  greeted  with  the  face  of  some 
pleasant  memory.  Here,  to  '  mind's  eyes '  .  .  .  .  stands  a  beauty,  looking 
out  of  a  window  ;  there,  a  wit,  talking  with  other  wits  at  a  garden  gate ; 
there,  a  poet  on  the  green  sward,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  London  smoke  and 
find  himself  among  trees.  Here  come  De  Veres  of  the  times  of  old ; 
Hollands  and  Davenants,  of  the  Stuart  and  Cromwell  times ;  Evelyn 
peering  about  him  soberly,  and  Samuel  Pepys  in  a  bustle.  .  .  .  Here,  in 
his  carriage,  is  King  William  the  Third,  going  from  the  Palace  to  open 
Parliament.  .  .  .  and  there,  from  out  of  Kensington  Gardens,  comes 
bursting,  as  if  the  whole  recorded  polite  world  were  in  flower  at  one  and 
the  same  period,  all  the  fashion  of  the  gayest  times  of  those  sovereigns, 
blooming  with  chintzes,  full-blown  with  hoop-petticoats,  towering  top- 
knots and  toupees.  .  .  .  Who  is  to  know  of  all  this  company,  and  not  be 
willing  to  meet  it  ?  " — Leigh  Hunt. 

"  Faith,  and  it's  the  old  Court  suburb  that  you  spoke  of,  is  it?  Sure,  an' 
it's  a  mighty  fine  place  for  the  quality." — Old  Play. 

THE  great  highway  of  Knightsbridge, — on  the  southern  side 
of  the  Park, — leads,  as  everybody  knows,  from  Hyde  Park  Corner 
to  Kensington.  Kensington,  as  it  is  now,  is  an  all-embracing 


CH.  X 


ALL-EMBRACING  KENSINGTON 


211 


name,  a  generic  term ;  it  comprises  not  only  Old  Kensington, 
but  both  "  West  Kensington,"  a  new  and  quickly  increasing 
district  of  tall  flats  and  "  Queen  Anne  "  houses,  as  far  removed 
from  London  proper,  for  all  practical  purposes,  as  St.  Albans ; 
and  "  South  Kensington,"  a  dull  and  uninteresting  quarter, 
but  close  to  all  the  big  West-end  museums  and  collections,  and 
where  no  self-respecting  lady  or  gentleman  of  the  professional 


Anglers  in  ttie  Parks. 

or  "  middle  classes  "  can  really  help  living.  He,  or  she,  must, 
nevertheless,  beware  lest  they  stray  too  far  from  the  sacred 
precincts.  For,  on  the  west,  South  Kensington  degenerates 
into  Earl's  Court ;  on  the  south,  a  belt  of  "  mean  streets  " 
divides  it  from  equally  select  Chelsea  (and,  in  London,  the 
difference  of  but  one  street  may  divide  the  green  enclosure  of 
the  elect  from  the  dusty  Sahara  of  the  vulgar) ;  while  on  the 
east,  its  glories  fade  into  the  dull,  unlovely  streets  of  Pimlico, 

P  2 


212  THE  KNIGIITSBRIDGE  ROAD  CHAP. 

brighten  into  the  red-brick  of  the  Cadogan  Estate,  or  solidify 
into  the  gloomy  pomp  of  Belgravia. 

These,  however,  are  but  Kensington's  later  excrescences, 
due  to  the  enormous  increase  of  London's  population,  and  to 
the  consequent  building  craze  of  the  last  century.  It  was  the 
Great  Exhibition  of  1851  that  gave  building,  in  this  direction, 
its  great  impetus.  The  original  village  of  Kensington,  the  "  Old 
Court  Suburb  "  of  Leigh  Hunt's  anecdotes,  lies  in  and  about 
the  Kensington  High  Street,  the  Gardens,  and  the  Palace.  It 
is  pre-eminently  of  eighteenth  century  renown;  Pepys  hardly 
mentions  it ;  its  glory  was  after  his  day.  It  is  reached  from 
London  by  the  Knightsbridge  Road,  a  thoroughfare  that, 
crowded  as  it  is  to-day  by  the  world  of  fashion,  was,  only  at 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  so  lonely  as  to  be  unsafe 
from  the  ravages  of  thieves  and  footpads ;  a  road  "  along 
which,"  Mr.  Hare  remarks  plaintively,  "  London  has  been 
moving  out  of  town  for  the  last  twenty  years,  but  has  never 
succeeded  in  getting  into  the  country."  So  solitary,  indeed, 
was  this  road  that,  even  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
a  bell  used  to  be  rung  on  Sunday  evenings  to  summon  the 
people  returning  to  London  from  Kensington  Village,  and  to 
allow  them  to  set  out  together  under  mutual  protection. 
London  is  not,  even  now,  well  lit  as  compared  with  large 
foreign  cities  ;  in  old  days,  however,  the  darkness  was  such  as 
to  draw  down  the  well-deserved  strictures  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu.  Such  was  the  insecurity  of  that  courtly,  highway, 
the  Kensington  or  Knightsbridge  Road,  that  it  was  the  first 
place  to  adopt,  in  1694,  oil  lamps  with  glazed  lights,  in  prefer- 
ence to  the  older  fashion  of  lanterns  and  wicks  of  cotton. 

Some  of  London's  finest  mansions  are  now  to  be  found  in 
this  Knightsbridge  Road.  On  the  left,  as  you  go  towards 
Kensington,  are  Kent  House  (Louisa,  Lady  Ashburton),  once 
lived  in  by  the  Duke  of  Kent,  Queen  Victoria's  father ; 
Stratheden  House,  and  Alford  House, — this  last  a  fine  modern 
building  of  brick  and  terra-cotta,  with  high  roofs.  Beyond 


OLD  KENSINGTON 


213 


Kensington  Gore  (so  called  from  "  Old  Gore  House,"  that  once 
occupied  the  site  of  the  Albert  Hall),  is  the  attractive  and 
strangely  rural-looking  Lowther  Lodge,  now  so  cruelly  dominated 
by  tall  "mansions";  and  further  still,  the  vast  "Albert  Hall," 
a  red  Colosseum  of  music.  This,  in  spring,  is  a  delightful  drive  ; 
indeed,  London  wears  here  such  a  semi-suburban  air  that  it  is 
with  almost  the  feeling  of  entering  a  new  townlet  that  we 
presently  approach  the  charming  "  High  Street "  of  Old 
Kensington.  Charming  it  is  still,  with  still  something  of  an  old- 
world  air ;  and  yet,  during  the  last  fifty  years  or  so,  it  has 
terribly  altered.  In  the  old  days,  the  days  when  "  the  shabby 
tide  of  progress  "  had  not  yet  spread  to  this  quiet  old  suburb  of 
which  Miss  Thackeray  wrote  so  lovingly; — had  not  yet  engulfed 
"  one  relic  after  another,  carrying  off  many  and  many  a  land- 
mark arid  memory," — there  were  "gardens,  and  trees,  and  great 
walls  along  the  high  road  that  came  from  London,  passing 
through  the  old  white  turnpike.  ...  In  those  days  the  lanes 
spread  to  Fulham,  white  with  blossom  in  spring,  or  golden 
with  the  yellow  London  sunsets  that  blazed  beyond  the  cabbage- 
fields.  .  .  .  There  were  high  brown  walls  along  Kensington 
Gardens,  reaching  to  the  Palace  Gate  :  elms  spread  their  shade 
and  birds  chirruped,  and  children  played  behind  them." 

Yet,  even  for  sweet  Dolly  Vanborough,  Miss  Thackeray 
confesses,  Old  Kensington  was  already  vanishing.  Already 
for  her  "  the  hawthorn  bleeds  as  it  is  laid  low  and  is  trans- 
formed year  after  year  into  iron  railings  and  areas,  for 
particulars  of  which  you  are  requested  to  apply  to  the  railway 
company,  and  to  Mr.  Taylor,  the  house-agent."  How  much, 
alas,  is  left  of  it  now  ?  True,  Holland  House,  and  Kensington 
Palace,  and  Gardens,  are  left  inviolate,  but  Campden  Hill  is 
adorned  by  the  aspiring  chimneys  of  waterworks,  the  peace  of 
quiet  Kensington  Square  is  invaded  by  model  lodging-houses, 
the  underground  railway  defiles  the  pleasant  High  Street,  and 
where  of  old  the  hawthorn  bloomed,  tall  placards  now  advertise 
"  Very  Desirable  Mansions  to  be  Let  on  Exceptional  Terms." 


CH.  x  OLD  AND  NEW  BEAUTIES  215 

But  Kensington  has  not  changed  in  essentials.  In  those 
old  days  it  was  already,  as  it  is  now,  a  great  Roman  Catholic 
quarter,  with  convents  and  shops  for  the  sale  of  sacred  objects. 
No  great  cathedral  had  as  yet  been  built  there  ;  no  Newman  as 
yet  looked  steadfastly  from  his  marble  alcove  over  the  noisy 
Brompton  Road ;  the  tendencies  in  that  direction  were,  how- 
ever, already  paramount. 

When  a  London  suburb  has  once  become  crowded  with 
houses,  what  was  once  picturesque  becomes  speedily  squalid 
and  sordid  ;  the  pretty  village  street  soon  changes  to  a  murky 
alley,  and  the  ivy-grown  tavern  converts  itself  into  a  mere 
disreputable-looking  public-house.  Of  this  sad  fact,  Miss 
Thackeray's  pleasant  lanes,  running  from  Kensington  to 
Chelsea  and  Fulham,  furnish  at  the  present  day  abundant 
proof.  The  charming  village  lanes  that  at  the  beginning  of 
last  century  filled  Kensington  and  Chelsea, — the  dairies  such  as 
that  where  pretty  Emma  Penfold  dispensed  curds  and  whey, — 
the  cottages  with  damask  rose-trees, — the  tea-gardens,  rural  as 
now  those  on  Kew  Green, — what  is  now  their  latter  end  ?  Their 
modern  realisations — Sydney  Street,  Smith  Street,  Manor 
Street — are  not  exactly  attractive  or  savoury  byways.  No,  it 
requires  palaces  and  big  mansions  to  keep  up  the  "  rus- 
in-urbe";  mere  cottages  cannot  do  it  without  degenerating 
into  drying-grounds,  unspeakable  back  yards,  or  slums. 
But,  if  the  old  beauty  has  gone  from  Kensington,  another 
beauty,  of  a  different  kind,  awaits  it.  Of  such  beauty 
the  imposing  dome  of  the  "  Brompton  Oratory,"  seen 
against  a  lurid  sunset  at  the  end  of  a  vista  in  the  Brompton 
Road,  is  an  effective  instance.  This  church,  so  drama- 
tically placed  in  close  proximity  with  the  Anglican  parish 
church,  is  a  very  striking  object  in  the  landscape ;  especially 
striking,  too,  when  the  light  "that  London  takes  the  day  to 
be,"  has  softened  and  blended  its  more  salient  architectural 
features  into  one  dimly  glorified  mass. 

If  Kensington  is  somewhat  addicted  to  "  cliques  "  and  to 


216  THACKERAY'S  KENSINGTON  ABODES  CHAP. 

social  exclusiveness,  it  is,  after  all,  only  following  out  its  ancient 
traditions.  For  in  older  days  it  was  always  prim  and  conserva- 
tive, governed  by  its  own  laws. 

"There  was"  (says  Miss  Thackeray)  "a  Kensington  world  ....  some- 
what apart  from  the  big  uneasy  world  surging  beyond  the  turnpike — a  world 
of  neighbours  bound  together  by  the  old  winding  streets  and  narrow  corners 
in  a  community  of  venerable  elm  trees  and  traditions  that  are  almost  levelled 
away.  Mr.  Awl,  the  bootmaker  in  High  Street,  exhibited  peculiar  walk- 
ing-shoes long  after  high  heels  and  kid  brodekins  had  come  into  fashion  in 
the  metropolis.  The  last  time  I  was  in  his  shop  I  saw  a  pair  of  the  old- 
fashioned,  flat,  sandalled  shoes,  directed  to  Miss  Vieuxtemps,  in  Palace 
Green.  Tippets,  poke-bonnets,  even  a  sedan  chair,  still  existed  among  us 
long  after  they  had  been  discarded  by  more  active  minds." 

It  all  suggests  nothing  so  much  as  one  of  Mr.  G.  D.  Leslie's 
pictures.  The  poetic  fancy  of  the  writer  of  Old  Kensington 
is,  indeed,  conceived  in  much  the  same  pleasant  minor  key  as 
the  artist's — the  author  of  School  Revisited  and  kindred 
idylls, — both  evoking  visions  of  girls  in  short  waists,  lank,  frilled 
skirts,  and  sandals,  amid  cool  suburban  walled  gardens,  grass 
plots,  and  fountains. 

Thackeray  lived  at  three  Kensington  houses  : — first,  at  that 
known  as  "  The  Cottage  " : — No.  13  (now  No.  16),  Young  Street, 
— from  1847  to  J^53;  secondly,  at  No.  36,  Onslow  Square,  from 
1853  to  1862;  and  thirdly,  at  No.  2,  Palace  Green,  where  he 
died.  The  great  writer's  daughters,  who  must  have  been  quite 
little  children  when  he  first  came  here,  no  doubt  knew  and 
loved  well  their  home  of  so  many  years.  From  the  daughter's 
very  vivid  reminiscences,  we  get  charming  sketches  of  the  life 
and  the  different  abodes  of  the  family.  The  Newcomes, 
The  Virginians,  and  the  Four  Georges  were  written  in  Onslow 
Square,  where,  says  Miss  Thackeray,  "  I  used  to  look  up  from 
the  avenue  of  old  trees  and  see  my  father's  head  bending 
over  his  work  in  the  study  window,  which  was  over  the 
drawing-room."  But  Onslow  Square  is  close  to  South 
Kensington  Station,  and  the  Young  Street  house,  which  was 
the  earlier  residence,  was  certainly  in  a  prettier  neighbourhood. 


x  LITERARY  ASSOCIATIONS  217 

Also,  it  has  double-fronted  bay  windows,  and  enjoyed,  more- 
over, the  honour  of  inspiring  its  tenant's  magnum  opus,  for 
here  Thackeray  wrote  Vanity  Fair,  as  well  as  Esmond  and 
Pendennis.  Most  of  his  work  was  done  in  a  second-story 
room,  overlooking  an  open  space  of  orchards  and  gardens. 
A  tablet  now  distinguishes  the  window  where  the  novelist 
worked,  with  the  initials  W.  M.  T.  grouped  in  a  monogram 
between  the  dates  of  his  residence  here ;  the  names  of  the 
three  books  of  this  period  being  inscribed  in  the  border. 

Artists,  who  in  the  early  part  of  last  century  were  still  more 
or  less  faithful  to  the  northern  suburbs,  have,  during  the 
last  three  or  four  decades  flocked  to  Kensington  and  Chelsea. 
Millais,  Leighton,  and  others  led  the  way ;  and  now  fine 
studios  abound  in  all  the  newer  and  airy  streets  of  red  brick 
houses.  At  No.  6,  The  Terrace,  Campden  Hill,  poor  John 
Leech,  who  moved  hither  from  Bloomsbury  street  afflictions, 
died  in  1864  from  spasm  of  the  heart,  at  the  comparatively 
early  age  of  forty-seven.  On  Campden  Hill,  also,  is  "  Holly 
Lodge,"  Lord  Macaulay's  residence ;  the  place,  too,  where  he 
died,  and  where  he  "  loved  to  entertain  all  his  youthful  nephews 
and  nieces."  Campden  Hill  has  still  a  certain  charm,  a  charm 
of  gardens,  terraces,  and  irregular  houses ;  it  has,  too,  so  many 
winding  ways,  that  it  is  easier  to  lose  one's  bearings  here, 
than  almost  anywhere  in  London. 

Leigh  Hunt,  the  gossiping  chronicler  of  Kensington  Court 
scandals  and  celebrities,  lived  for  eleven  years,  and  more 
successfully  than  elsewhere,  in  Edwardes  Square,  a  charming 
enclosure,  a  little  way  back  from  the  Kensington  Road  beyond 
High  Street,  and  opposite  the  grounds  of  Holland  House.  Here 
the  versatile  writer,  the  ill-starred  "  Skimpole "  of  Dickens's 
satire,  lived  with  his  numerous  family, — now  older  than  in  the 
Cheyne  Row  period  of  their  existence, — and,  possibly,  less 
addicted  to  litter,  and  to  borrowing  the  long-suffering  neigh- 
bours' tea-cups.  Leigh  Hunt's  son,  Thornton  Hunt,  thus 
describes  the  Square  at  this  time  : — 


218  ELIZABETH  INCHBALD  CHAP. 

"  Our  square,  with  its  pretty  houses  and  rustic  enclosure,  left  with  its 
natural  undulations,  very  slight,  but  sufficient  to  diminish  the  formal  look, 
its  ivy-covered  backs  of  houses  on  one  side,  and  gardens  and  backs  of  houses 
on  the  other,  was  a  curiosity  which,  when  I  first  saw  it,  I  could  not  account 
for  on  English  principles,  uniting  as  it  did  something  decent,  pleasant, 
and  cheap,  with  such  axiti-comme  il  faut  anomalies — such  aristocratic  size 
and  verdure  in  the  ground  plot,  with  so  plebeian  a  smallness  in  the  tenements. 
But  it  seems  a  Frenchman  invented  it." 

Edwardes  Square  is,  like  Kensington  Square,  still  pretty  and 
rural  and  attractive.  At  one  end  of  it,  and  looking  on  to  the 
Kensington  Road,  is  Earl's  Terrace,  a  row  of  attractive,  old- 
fashioned  houses,  set  back  from  the  street,  with  little  front 
gardens.  Here,  not  so  very  long  ago,  lived  Walter  Pater,  con- 
tinuing the  literary  associations  of  the  neighbourhood  ;  a  lover 
of  beauty,  he,  too,  but  very  different  from  Leigh  Hunt.  In 
Hunt's  time,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Inchbald  lived  "  as  a  boarder  " 
at  No.  4  in  this  terrace.  Her  chief  claim  to  fame  is  The 
Simple  Story,  a  work  which  few  people  now  read,  though 
many  have  heard  of  it.  She  appears  to  have  been  a  charming 
and  eccentric  as  well  as  a  talented  lady.  Here  is  a  diary 
jotting  of  hers,  quoted  by  Leigh  Hunt: — "On  the  29th  of 
June  (Sunday)  dined,  drank  tea,  and  supped  with  Mrs. 
Whitfield.  At  dark,  she  and  I  and  her  son  William  walked 
out,  and  I  rapped  at  doors  in  New  Street  and  King  Street 
and  ran  away."  "This  was  in  the  year  1788,"  says  Hunt, 
"  when  she  was  five-and-thirty.  But  such  people  never  grow 
old.  .  .  .  Divine  .Elizabeth  Inchbald,  qualified  to,  be  the 
companion  of  every  moment  of  human  life,  grave  or  gay,  from 
a  rap  at  the  street  door  in  a  fit  of  mirth  to  the  deepest  phases 
of  sympathy." 

Yes,  The  Simple  Story  must  have  been  a  real  work  of 
genius,  for  no  one,  surely,  but  a  genius,  could  afford  so 
absolutely  to  disregard  les  convenances.  Though,  for  that 
matter,  our  feminine  geniuses  of  to-day  take  themselves  a  trifle 
more  seriously.  Imagine,  for  instance,  our  George  Eliots  of 
the  twentieth  century,  our  presidents  of  writers'  unions  and 


x  LEIGH  HUNT  219 

clubs,  going  out  late  at  night  to  ring  people's  doorbells  and  run 
away  !  Such  "  eternal  childishness  "  really  out-Skimpoles  Skim- 
pole.  If  Providence  had  seen  fit  to  place  the  two  in  contempor- 
ary residence  in  Edwardes  Square,  would  not  Mrs.  Inch  bald  have 
been  a  neighbour  after  Leigh  Hunt's  own  heart  ?  The  lady, 
it  is  further  recorded,  died — at  sixty-eight,  too — of '  *  tight- lacing." 
Leigh  Hunt's  must  have  been  an  interesting  personality,  and 
Dickens's  caricature  of  him,  intended  or  no,  seems  cruel.  The 
late  Mr.  George  Smith,  of  the  great  publishing  house,  tells  an 
entertaining  story  of  him.  On  one  occasion,  it  appears,  Mr. 
Smith  paid  Leigh  Hunt  £200  in  bank  notes  : 

"Two  days  afterwards "  (wrote  Mr.  Smith)  "Leigh  Hunt  came  in  a 
state  of  great  agitation  to  tell  me  that  his  wife  had  burned  them.  He  had 
thrown  the  envelope  with  the  banknotes  carelessly  down,  and  his  wife  had 
flung  it  into  the  fire.  Leigh  Hunt's  agitation  while  on  his  way  to  bring 
this  news  had  not  prevented  him  from  purchasing  on  the  road  a  little 
statuette  of  Psyche,  which  he  carried,  without  any  paper  round  it,  in  his 
hand.  I  told  him  I  thought  something  might  be  done  in  the  matter.  I 
sent  to  the  bankers  and  got  the  numbers  of  the  notes,  and  then,  in  com- 
pany with  Leigh  Hunt,  went  off  to  the  Bank  of  England.  I  explained  our 
business,  and  we  were  shown  into  a  room  where  three  old  gentlemen  were 
sitting  at  tables.  They  kept  us  waiting  some  time,  and  Leigh  Hunt, 
who  had  meantime  been  staring  all  round  the  room,  at  last  got  up,  walked 
up  to  one  of  the  staid  officials,  and  addressing  him,  said,  in  wondering 
tones  :  '  And  this  is  the  Bank  of  England  !  And  do  you  sit  here  all  day, 
and  never  see  the  green  woods  and  the  trees  and  flowers  and  the  charming 
country  ? '  Then,  in  tones  of  remonstrance,  he  demanded  :  '  Are  you  con- 
tented with  such  a  life  ? '  All  this  time  he  was  holding  the  little  naked  Psyche 
in  one  hand,  and  with  his  long  hair  and  flashing  eyes  made  a  surprising 
figure.  I  fancy  I  can  still  see  the  astonished  faces  of  the  three  officials  ; 
they  would  have  made  a  most  delightful  picture.  I  said  :  '  Come  away, 
Mr.  Hunt,  these  gentlemen  are  very  busy.'  I  succeeded  in  carrying  Leigh 
Hunt  off,  and,  after  entering  into  certain  formalities,  we  were  told  that  the 
value  of  the  notes  would  be  paid  in  twelve  months.  I  gave  Leigh  Hunt  the 
money  at  once,  and  he  went  away  rejoicing." 

Opposite  the  Palace  Gardens,  where  "  Kensington  Court " 
now  stands,  stood  once  Kensington  House,  a  big  Roman 
Catholic  boarding-house,  surely  a  kind  of  early  prototype  of 


220  CAMPDEN  HOUSE  CHAP. 

the  modern  "mansions."  Here  Louise  de  la  Querouaille, 
Duchess  of  Portsmouth,  lived,  and  here  Mrs.  Inchbald  died  ; 
later  it  was  occupied  by  Jesuits,  who  have  had  for  long  a  special 
stronghold  in  this  quarter.  Then,  at  last,  in  1876,  the  older 
house  made  way  for  Mr.  Albert  Grant's  pretentious  Italian 
mansion  of  the  same  name,  which  cost  ,£270,000,  and  only 
existed  seven  years,  having  been  pulled  down  in  1883.  So 
involved,  and  so  difficult  to  decipher,  is  the  history  of  London 
buildings. 

"  Church  House,"  so  vividly  described  by  Miss  Thackeray 
as  Dolly  Vanborough's  home,  stood  close  to  the  modern 
Church  Street.  And  close  to  Church  Street  is  Campden 
House,  a  modern  restoration  of  the  ancient  building  of  that 
name,  which  was  burned  down  in  1862  ;  the  gateway  of  the  old 
mansion  being  now  built  up  into  the  east  wall  of  the  garden. 
Old  Campden  House  dated  from  1612,  and  was  principally 
known  as  having  been  the  residence  of  Queen  Anne's  charming 
and  precocious  little  son,  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  the  poor  child 
who  died  at  eleven,  "  from  excessive  dancing  on  his  birthday," 
the  last  hope  of  the  race  dying  out  with  him.  Campden  House 
had  been  taken  for  the  boy,  so  that  he  might  be~near  his  aunt, 
Queen  Mary,  who  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  had  him  carried 
daily  in  infancy  to  see  her  at  Kensington  Palace. 

Kensington  Square,  with  its  comfortable-looking  houses  of 
sober  red  brick,  and  windows  with  white  painted  casements,  has 
a  delightfully  old-world  aspect.  Behind  the  houses  are  pleasant 
gardens,  as  yet — but  for  how  long  ? — left  untouched  by  the  tide 
of  progress.  Thackeray,  as  well  as  his  daughter,  must  have 
known  and  loved  this  square  well ;  for  here  he  imagined  Lady 
Castlewood,  Beatrix,  and  Harry  Esmond  to  dwell. 

Earl's  Court, — now  mainly  remarkable  for  the  near  neigh- 
bourhood of  "  Olympia," — the  "  Great  Wheel," — and  an  endless 
colony  of  railway  lines, — was,  some  fifty  years  ago,  still  "a 
quaint  old  row  of  houses,  their  lattices  stuffed  with  spring 
flowers,  facing  a  deep  cool  pond  by  the  roadside,"  and  em- 


PURLIEUS  OF  KENSINGTON 


221 


bowered  in  orchards.     Spots  of  welcome  greenery  there  still 
are  in  the  wide  area  of  West  and  South  Kensington  ;  there  is 


Earl '  s  Court, 


a  big  cemetery  to  be  buried  in,  and  the  oval  enclosure  called 
"  the  Boltons "  is  a  pleasant  place  to  live  in.  But,  on  the 
whole,  the  purlieus  of  Kensington  are  depressing.  While  West 


222  RANELAGH  AND  VAUXHALL  CHAP. 

Kensington  is  mainly  degraded  "  Queen  Anne,"  interspersed 
with  railways, — South  Kensington  has  one  very  general  dis- 
tinguishing mark.  It  is  nearly  always  stuccoed,  and  usually  also 
porticoed.  Its  larger  streets,  in  sun  or  shine,  bear  a  gloomy 
likeness  to  an  array  of  family  vaults,  awaiting  their  occupants. 
The  early  nineteenth  century  had,  in  truth,  much  to  answer  for 
in  the  way  of  bricks,  mortar,  and  stucco, — but  principally  stucco  ! 
Occasionally  there  is  some  faint  relief  to  the  prevailing  mode,  and 
here  and  there  some  of  the  smaller  roads  are  brightened  in  spring 
by  a  few  acacias  and  hawthorns  ;  but  in  the  larger  streets  there 
is  usually  the  same  saddening  uniformity,  and,  when  once  you 
have  left  the  vicinity  of  Kensington  Square,  you  find  nothing  in 
quite  the  same  style  until  you  reach  Chelsea  and  Cheyne  Walk. 

Chelsea,  too,  was  a  very  picturesque  village  in  old  days, — 
when  the  "  Old  Chelsea  Bun-House  "  was  a  favourite  resort  of 
the  Court, — when  "  Ranelagh  "  and  "  Vauxhall "  flourished  in 
the  neighbourhood, — and  when  the  then  fashionable  race  of 
London's  "  jolly  young  watermen "  for  their  annual  badge 
attracted,  as  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  boat-race  does  now- 
adays, crowds  of  spectators. 

Ranelagh  and  Vauxhall  !  what  recollections  do  they  not 
suggest  of  Fielding,  of  Richardson,  of  Fanny  Burney !  Both 
these  places  of  amusement  flourished  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century  ;  Vauxhall  (earlier  called  "  Spring  Garden  "), 
was,  so  to  speak,  the  "  Earl's  Court,"  the  summer  resort  of  the 
day ;  just  as  "  Ranelagh,"  with  its  famous  "  Rotunda,"  was  the 
"Olympia,"  or  winter  one.  Only,  both  the  ancient  pleasure 
resorts  rejoiced  in  being  the  centre  of  fashion,  which  can 
hardly  be  said  with  truth  of  the  modern  ones.  Also,  from  old 
novelists  the  reader  gathers  that  it  was  very  dangerous  for 
young  ladies  to  go  unprotected  to  either  place,  in  case  of  being 
run  away  with  by  bold,  bad  young  men  of  the  "  Lovelace " 
type.  Charming  young  ladies  are,  perhaps,  more  of  "  a  drug 
in  the  market  "  now ;  and  they  are  besides,  as  a  rule,  perfectly 
well  able  to  take  care  of  themselves, 


x  CHELSEA  223 

That  managers  of  those  days  were  not  more  ignorant  than 
their  twentieth-century  successors  of  the  great  art  of  advertising, 
—the  following  extract  (from  Rogers's  Table  Talk}  shows  : 

"  The  proprietors  of  Ranelagh  and  Vauxhall  used  to  send  decoy-ducks 
among  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were  walking  in  the  Mall,  that  is, 
persons  attired  in  the  height  of  fashion,  who  every  now  and  then  would 
exclaim  in  a  very  audible  tone,  '  What  charming  weather  for  Ranelagh,'  or 
'  for  Vauxhall ! ' " 

At  any  rate,  old  Vauxhall  Gardens  must  have  oeen  a 
charming  place  for  flirtation,  for  "  the  windings  and  turnings  in 
little  wildernesses  (were)  so  intricate,  that  the  most  experienced 
mothers  often  lost  themselves  in  looking  for  their  daughters.'' 
Part  of  the  site  of  old  Ranelagh  is  now  appropriated  as  the 
gardens  of  Chelsea  Hospital ;  the  site  of  Vauxhall  (in  South 
Lambeth,  on  the  Surrey  side)  is  now  covered  by  St.  Peter's, 
Vauxhall,  and  its  adjacent  streets. 

Picturesque  in  old  days,  Chelsea  is  a  picturesque  place  still, 
and  much  beloved  of  painters,  poets,  and  litterateurs ; — the 
class  of  Bloomsbury,  and  yet  with  a  vast  difference.  Here 
it  is  the  "  mode  "  to  be  select  and  exclusive.  The  artistic 
"  cliques  "  of  Tite  Street  and  Cheyne  Walk  are  nothing  if  not 
particular.  To  use  the  words  of  the  modest  prospectus  issued 
by  a  recent  magazine,  they  "  will  not  tolerate  mediocrity." 
But  then  no  one  in  Chelsea  ever  is,  or  at  least  allows  himself, 
to  be  "  mediocre."  Perhaps  the  fortunate  inhabitants  feel,  as 
do  the  denizens  of  the  academic  towns  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge, 
the  important  weight  of  the  traditions  of  their  literary  past. 
The  spirit  of  Carlyle,  Leigh  Hunt,  Rossetti,  George  Eliot,  yet 
gives  to  Chelsea  a  literary  atmosphere  that  it  must  at  all  hazards 
keep  up.  A  dinner-party  in  its  august  cliques  is  not  to  be 
lightly  undertaken ;  you  feel,  as  you  enter,  that  this  is  indeed 
a  holy  place. 

Yet,  already,  the  seclusion  and  selectness  of  Chelsea's 
sacred  circles  are  being  threatened  with  invasion  by  the 
Philistine.  On  "the  other  side  of  the  water," — where  a 


224  THE  CARLYLE  HOUSE  CHAP. 

picturesque  suspension-bridge,  the  Albert  Bridge,  throws  its 
graceful  chain-curves  across  Chelsea  Reach, — lies  Battersea  Park, 
surrounded  on  three  sides  by  myriad  red-brick  flats  of  varying 
cheapness,  grown  like  mushrooms, "and  still  growing.  Here  is 
an  infant  community,  a  sort  of  "  townier  "  Bedford  Park,  whose 
inhabitants  can  boast,  with  some  truth,  that  they  are  "  near  the 
hum  of  the  great  city,  and  yet  not  of  it."  Flats  are  increasing 
all  over  London  and  its  immediate  suburbs  now  to  such  an 
extent  that  they  are,  indeed,  in  some  danger  of  being  overdone. 
In  Central  London,  the  growth  of  flats  is,  perhaps,  of  little 
consequence ;  but  in  suburban  or  semi-suburban  London,  the 
ubiquitous  builder  is  the  great  bloodsucker  of  our  day  ;  he 
wanders  perpetually,  seeking,  like  the  devil,  what  he  may 
devour;  and,  on  his  debatable  "Tom  Tiddler's  Ground," 
everlastingly  "  picking  up  gold  and  silver."  But  the  builder 
has  done  good  work  too  in  Chelsea;  for  does  not  Cheyne 
Walk,  of  picturesque  and  venerable  aspect,  with  its  well- 
restored,  red-brick,  white-casemented  houses,  and  fine  old 
ironwork,  lend  a  dignity  to  the  western  end  of  the  Chelsea 
Embankment,  to  which,  lower  down,  the  spacious  new  red 
mansions,  of  ornate  yet  good  style,  do  no  disgrace?  And 
modest  Cheyne  Row,  containing  the  most  famous  dwelling  in 
all  Chelsea,  is  built  in  quiet,  unobjectionable  style. 

Carlyle's  quiet-looking  residence  in  Cheyne t  Row  is,  prac- 
tically, a  museum  of  the  Soane  kind,  left  exactly  as  when 
lived  in  ;  the  only  difference  being  that  here  the  relics  are 
purely  personal.  This,  a  real  "  house  of  pilgrimage  "  to  the 
literary  world,  is,  especially,  the  resort  of  cultured  Americans, 
who  have  even,  it  is  said,  had  to  be  mildly  dissuaded  from 
sitting  on  the  Sage's  chairs  and  trying  on  his  head-gear. 

The  "  Carlyle  House," — desecrated,  indeed,  to  the  scandal  of 
the  neighbours,  for  an  interregnum  of  unholy  years  by  a  horde 
of  lawless  cats, — is  now  entirely  restored  to  its  pristine  neatness 
and  order.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  any  place  less  museum- 
like  and  more  pleasantly  homely  than  this  silent,  peaceful, 


x  THE  HUMAN  INTEREST  225 

darkly-panelled  abode,  which  seems, — backed  by  its  green 
garden-close, — to  be  indeed  a  survival  of  the  past*  breathing 
forth  still  the  spirit  of  the  departed  seer.  • 

It  was  thus  that  Carlyle  wrote  of  the  street  and  the  house 
some  seventy  years  ago  : 

"The  street  is  flag-pathed,  sunk-storied,  iron-railed,  all  old-fashioned 
and  tightly  done  up  ;  looks  out  on  a  rank  of  sturdy  old  pollarded  (that  is, 
beheaded)  lime  trees  standing  there  like  giants  in  tawtie  wigs  (for  the  new 
boughs  are  still  young)  ;  beyond  this  a  high  brick  wall  ;  backwards  a  garden, 
the  size  of  our  back  one  at  Comely  Bank,  with  trees,  &c.,  in  bad  culture  ; 
beyond  this,  green  hayfields  and  tree  avenues,  once  a  bishop's  pleasure 
grounds,  an  unpicturesque  yet  rather  cheerful  outlook.  The  house  itself  is 
eminent,  antique,  wainscoted  to  the  very  ceiling,  and  has  been  all  new 
painted  and  repaired  ;  broadish  stair  with  massive  balustrade  (in  the  old 
style),  corniced  and  as  thick  as  one's  thigh  ;  floors  thick  as  a  rock,  wood  of 
them  here  and  there  worm-eaten,  yet  capable  of  cleanliness,  and  still  with 
thrice  the  strength  of .  a  modern  floor.  .  .  .  Chelsea  is  a  singular 
heterogeneous  kind  of  spot,  very  dirty  and  contused  in  some  places,  quite 
beautiful  in  others,  abounding  in  antiquities  and  the  traces  of  great  men — 
Sir  Thomas  More,  Steele,  Smollett,  &c.  Our  Row,  which  for  the  last  three 
doors  or  so  is  a  street,  and  none  of  the  noblest,  runs  out  upon  a  '  Parade' 
(perhaps  they  call  it),  running  along  the  shore  of  the  river,  a  broad  high  way 
with  huge  shady  trees,  boats  lying  moored,  and  a  smell  of  shipping  and 
tan." 

Houses  where  people  have  lived,  and  suffered,  and  experi- 
enced, always — at  least  to  those  who  know — seem  to  bear  the 
impress  of  their  past  owners'  personality.  Who  has  not  gone 
back,  after  long  years,  to  an  old  dwelling-place,  and  been 
haunted  by  ghosts  of  the  past,  lurking  in  every  well-known 
corner  and  cranny?  There  is  something  of  the  feeling  of 
standing  by  a  new-rhade  grave, — the  grave  of  what  has  been, 
and  will  never  be  again.  Such  feelings,  in  a  minor  degree, 
does  the  Carlyle  house  suggest  to  those  who  have  read  and 
interested  themselves  in  the  long-drawn-out  tragedy  of  those 
joint  lives  with  which  it  was  bound  up.  In  Mrs.  Carlyle's  pretty 
"china  closet,"  for  instance,  you  can  almost  see  the  slender 
figure  in  neat  black  silk,  deftly  arranging  and  dusting ;  here,  in 

Q 


226  THE  CARLYLES  AND  LEIGH  HUNT  CHAP. 

the  drawing-room  beyond,  is  her  work-table ;  you  can  imagine 
her,  most  thrifty  of  housewives,  mending  a  hole  in  the  carpet ; 
there  in  the  chimney-corner  she  lay  on  her  sofa,  silently  suffer- 
ing, while  her  prophet  vociferated  his  thunders,  and  puffed 
clouds  of  tobacco-smoke  into  the  chimney.  Upstairs,  on 
the  top  story,  is  the  much-written-of  "sound-proof"  room, 
which  was  really  not  "sound-proof"  at  all,  though  it  was  con- 
structed with  that  object  by  Carlyle  at  a  considerable  expense. 
Possibly,  "  the  young  lady  next  door  "  still  plays  on  her  piano ; 
most  likely  the  neighbours'  fowls  still  crow  loudly  in  the  morn- 
ings (for  these  minor  evils  of  London  are  perennial),  in  full 
security  now  and  immunity. 

A  seated  statue  of  Carlyle,  by  Boehm, — a  real  work  of  art, — 
faces  the  river  in  the  neighbouring  Embankment  Gardens, 
close  to  the  Albert  Bridge.  Weary,  wrinkled,  as  Tithonus,  the 
old  man  gazes  ever  towards  the  unceasing  tides  of  the  river 
and  of  humanity,  his  look  troubled,  but  yet 

"majestic  in  his  sadness  at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human  kind." 

In  Upper  (or  "  Little  ")  Cheyne  Row,  close  by  the  Carlyles, 
lived  for  seven  years, — the  most  embarrassed  years  in  his 
chequered  career, — Leigh  Hunt.  (This  was  from  1833  to  1840, 
before  the  Edwafdes  Square  time.)  Could  one  imagine  a 
greater  contrast  than  these  two  Cheyne  Row  households? 
The  Hunts  were  Bohemians  of  irrepressible  type.  Mrs. 
Carlyle,  being,  too,  in  1834  only  at  the  very  beginning  of  her 
neat  Chelsea  housekeeping,  and  not  yet  "  bug-bitten,  bedusted, 
and  bedevilled,"  was,  naturally,  very  severe  on  the  subject  of 
the  Hunts.  To  judge  from  the  letters  of  "  that  clever  lady, 
a  little  too  much  given  to  insecticide ''  (as  Lord  Bowen  called 
her),  she  had  but  the  poorest  opinion  of  her  neighbour's  wife's 
"management"  and  borrowing  ways.  And  here  is  Carlyle's 
account  of  the  Hunt  menage  : 

"  Hunt's  house"  (he  says)  "  excels  all  you  have  ever  read  of — a  poetical 
Tinkerdom,  without  parallel  even  in  literature.     In  his  family  room,  where 


CHEYNE  WALK 


227 


are  a  sickly  large  wife  and  a  whole  school  of  well-conditioned  wild 
children,  you  will  find  half-a-dozen  old  rickety  chairs  gathered  from  half-a- 
dozen  different  hucksters,  and  all  seeming  engaged,  and  just  pausing,  in  a 
violent  hornpipe.  On  these  and  around  them,  and  over  the  dusty  table 
and  ragged  carpet  lie  all  kinds  of  litter — books,  papers,  egg-shells,  scissors, 
and,  last  night  when  I  was  there,  the  torn  heart  of  a  half-quartern  loaf.  His 
own  room  above  stairs,  into  which  alone  I  strive  to  enter,  he  keeps  cleaner. 
It  has  only  two  chairs,  a  bookcase,  and  a  writing-table  ;  yet  the  noble 
Hunt  receives  you  in  his  Tinkerdom  in  the  spirit  of  a  king,  apologises  for 
nothing,  places  you  in  the  best  seat,  takes  a  window-sill  himself  if  there  is  no 
other,  and  then,  folding  closer  his  loose-flowing  '  muslin-cloud '  of  a  printed 
nightgown,  in  which  he  always  writes,  commences  the  liveliest  dialogue  on 
philosophy  and  the  prospects  of  man  (who  is  to  be  beyond  measure  happy 
yet) ;  which  again  he  will  courteously  terminate  the  moment  you  are  bound 
to  go  ;  a  most  interesting,  pitiable,  lovable  man,  to  be  used  kindly,  but  with 
discretion." 

In  the  neighbouring  Cheyne  Walk  have,  of  course,  lived 
many  notable  people.  Innumerable  associations  cling  to  this 
picturesque  row  of  time  darkened  red-brick  and  \vhite-case- 
mented  houses,  with  the  graceful  wrought-iron  railings  and  tall 
gates  that  shut  out  their  trim  front-garden  plots  from  the  curious 
Embankment.  At  No.  4,  died  George  Eliot  the  novelist,  in 
1880,  a  short  time  after  her  marriage  to  Mr.  Cross.  She  had 
only  recently  settled  into  this  charming  London  dwelling,  and 
her  voluminous  library  had  only  just  been  arranged  for  her 
with  infinite  care,  "as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  same  order 
as  at  the  Priory,"  when  the  sudden  stroke  of  Death  fell. 
Daniel  Maclise,  the  early-Victorian  painter,  a  meteor  of  art, 
and  the  wonder  of  his  own  age,  had  lived  in  this  same  house 
before.  Cecil  Lawson,  that  young  painter  of  such  great 
promise,  who  died  so  early,  lived  at  No.  15  ;  and  No.  16,  or 
"  Queen's  House,"  is  bound  up  with  the  memory  of  that  bril- 
liant and  wayward  genius,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  who  lived 
here  after  his  wife's  tragic  death,  and  gathered  round  him  his 
famous  miscellany  of  strange  beasts  and  curious  creatures. 

"  Queen's  House,"  unaltered  in  essentials,  has  still  a 
picturesque  and  old-world  air  that  agrees  well  with  its  long 

Q  2 


228  "QUEEN'S  HOUSE"  CHAP. 

history.  Its  mellowed  bricks  of  sober  red  have  a  pleasant  solidity. 
It  used  to  be  called  "  Tudor  House,"  owing  to  its  early  tradi- 
tional associations  with  Queens  Katherine  Parr  and  Elizabeth ; 
for  the  ancient  "  Manor  House  "  of  Chelsea,  built  by  Henry 
VIII,  occupied,  with  its  gardens,  the  site  of  this  and  the 
adjoining  houses;  from  No.  18  Cheyne  Walk  eastward  as  far 
as  Oakley  street.  Of  the  many  celebrated  people  who  have  lived 
there,  Sir  Hans  Sloane  was  the  latest ; — the  old  house  was  pulled 
down  after  his  death.  The  basements  and  gardens  of  the  houses 
in  Cheyne  Walk  still  show  traces  of  this  palace  of  Henry  VIII. 
The  present  "  Queen's  House  "  is  said  to  have  been  built  by 
Wren,  the  Royal  Architect,  for  the  neglected  Queen  Catherine 
of  Braganza ;  and  some  say  that  the  initials,  "  C.  R.",  in  twisted 
iron  on  the  gate  and  railings,  commemorate  her  tenancy. 
However  that  may  be,  we  may  take  it  that  Thackeray,  in 
Esmond,  describes  it  as  the  home  of  the  old  "  Dowager  of 
Chelsey ; "  and  here,  again,  we  note  the  curious  fact  that  the 
fictional  interest  is  at  least  as  strong  as  the  real. 

Inside,  the  house  is  delightful ;  all  the  rooms  and  passages  are 
heavily  wainscoted,  and  the  balustrade  of  the  spiral  staircase  is 
of  "  finest  hand-wrought  iron."  When  Rossetti  entered  on  its 
occupation,  Chelsea  was  still,  though  literary,  comparatively 
unfashionable ;  (for  in  those  days  the  two  persuasions  did  not 
as  yet  go  hand  in-hand).  The  poet-painter  began  a  joint 
tenancy  here  with  Swinburne,  George  Meredith,  and  his 
brother,  William  Rossetti ;  of  these  Swinburne  was  ,the  most 
constant,  and  he  wrote  many  of  his  best-known  poems  here. 
But  of  Mr.  Meredith's  would-be-tenancy  the  following  story  is 
told,  on  the  novelist's  own  authority  : — 

"  Mr.  Meredith  had,  rather  irresponsibly,  agreed  to  occupy  a  couple  of 
rooms  in  Queen's  House.  .  .  .  One  morning  therefore,  shortly  after  Rossetti 
moved  in, — Mr.  Meredith,  who  was  living  in  Mayfair,  drove  over  to  Chelsea 
to  inspect  his  new  apartments.  '  It  was,'  says  the  unhappy  co-tenant, 
'past  noon.  Rossetti  had  not  yet  risen,  though  it  was  an  exquisite  day. 
On  the  breakfast  table,  on  a  huge  dish,  rested  five  thick  slabs  of  bacon, 
upon  which  five  rigid  eggs  had  slowly  bled  to  death  !  Presently  Rossetti 


x  ROSSETTI'S  MENAGERIE  229 

appeared  in  his  dressing-gown  with  slippers  down  at  heel,  and  devoured  the 
dainty  repast  like  an  ogre.'  This  decided  Mr.  Meredith.  He  did  not 
even  trouble  to  look  at  his  rooms,  but  sent  in  a  quarter's  rent  that  afternoon, 
and  remained  in  Mayfair,  where  eggs  and  bacon  were,  presumably,  more 
appetizingly  served." 

Rossetti's  studio  was  at  the  back  of  the  old  house;  but 
what  the  painter  enjoyed  most  was  the  garden,  an  acre  in 
extent  in  his  time,  with  an  avenue  of  limes  opening  out  on  to 
a  broad  grass  plot ; — part,  no  doubt,  of  the  ancient  "  Manor 
House  "  garden  : 

"  In  this  garden  were  kept "  (says  Mr.  Marillier)  "  most  of  the  animals  for 
which  Rossetti  had  such  a  curious  and  indiscriminate  affection.  How 
many  of  them  there  may  have  been  at  any  one  time  does  not  seem  to  be 
stated  ;  but  as  one  died  or  disappeared,  another  would  be  got  to  replace  it, 
or  Rossetti  would  see  some  particularly  outlandish  specimen  at  Jamrach's 
and  bear  it  home  in  triumph  to  add  to  the  collection.  Wire  cages  were 
erected  for  their  accommodation,  but  these  were  not  always  proof  against 
escape,  especially  in  the  case  of  the  burrowing  animals,  which  had  an 
annoying  way  of  appearing  in  the  neighbours'  gardens.  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti 
has  given  from  memory  a  tolerably  long  list  of  creatures  which  at  one  time 
or  another  figured  in  the  menagerie  at  Cheyne  Walk.  They  included  a 
Pomeranian  puppy,  an  Irish  deerhound,  a  barn-owl  named  Jessie,  another 
owl  named  Bobby,  rabbits,  dormice,  hedgehogs,  two  successive  wombats,  a 
Canadian  marmot  or  woodchuck,  an  ordinary  marmot,  kangaroos  and 
wallabies,  a  deer,  two  or  more  armadillos,  a  white  mouse  with  her  brood,  a 
raccoon,  squirrels,  a  mole,  peacocks,  wood-owls,  Virginian  owls,  horned 
owls,  a  jackdaw,  a  raven,  parakeets,  a  talking  parrot,  chameleons,  grey 
lizards,  Japanese  salamanders,  and  a  laughing  jackass.  Besides  these  there 
was  a  certain  famous  bull,  a  zebu,  which  cost  Rossetti  £20  (he  borrowed  it 
from  his  brother),  and  which  manifested  such  animosity  in  confinement  that 
it  had  to  be  disposed  of  at  once.  The  strident  voices  of  the  peacocks  were 
so  little  appreciated  in  the  neighbourhood  that  Lord  Cadogan  caused  a 
paragraph  to  be  inserted  in  all  his  leases  thereafter  forbidding  these  birds  to 
be  kept." 

The  house,  as  I  said,  is  very  little  changed, — though  Mr. 
Haweis,  its  recent  occupant,  added  a  statue  of  Mercury,  poised 
on  the  ball  at  its  gable  apex, — and  its  brickwork  is  said  by  Mr. 
Marillier  to  have  "  had  an  older,  more  natural  look  in  Rossetti's 


230  ROSSETTI  AND  THE  VESTRYMAN  CHAP. 

day."  And  "  in  front  the  unembanked  river,  and  .  .  .  the 
boating  bustle  and  longshore  litter  of  the  old  days  added 
picturesqueness  to  the  view,  which  in  all  essentials  was  the 
same  as  the  aged  Turner  had  looked  out  upon  from  his  little 
house  not  very  far  away."  Ghosts, — of  Katherine  Parr  and 
others, — have,  not  unnaturally,  been  accredited  to  "  Queen's 
House."  But  they  do  not  appear  to  have  survived  Rossetti's 
tenancy ;  for  Mr.  Haweis,  who  lived  and  entertained  here 
for  14  years,  was  not  disturbed  by  them,  "  even  though  he 
unearthed  the  entrance  of  a  mysterious  subterranean  passage, 
which  was  believed  to  have  communicated  with  the  Lord  High 
Admiral's  House;"-  a  sort  of  semi-royal  cryptoporticus  of 
intrigue !  Mr.  Haweis  also  discovered  the  antique  Watergate 
of  the  former  stately  mansion — leading  to  the  stone  steps 
where  in  old  days  barges  were  moored, — the  shelving  river 
banks  extending  in  those  days  far  nearer  than  now.  The 
great  thickness  of  the  walls  of  Queen's  House  may,  indeed,  be 
partly  accounted  for  by  the  necessity  for  protection  against 
floods  ;  Mr.  Haweis,  who  sacrilegiously  cut  a  window  to  light 
the  spiral  staircase,  had  to  pierce  three  feet  of  solid  brickwork. 
Here  is  a  funny  story,  retailed  by  Mr.  Marillier,  of  Rossetti 
and  the  advancing  Age  of  Progress  : 

"  The  only  bridge  along  the  reach  "  (he  says)  "was  old  Chelsea  Bridge, 
concerning  which  Mr.  George  Meredith  tells  me  a  pleasant  story.  One  day 
there  called  upon  Mr.  Rossetti  a  pompous  individual  of  the  vestryman  class, 
with  a  paper  to  which  he  requested  his  signature.  '  We  are  getting  up  a 
petition,'  he  said,  'to  replace  the  old  wooden  bridge  by  a  handsome  new 
iron  one,  with  gilt  decorations,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  as  an  artist, 
Mr.  Rossetti,  will  lend  us  the  weight  of  your  name  for  so  desirable  an  object. 
Rossetti's  language,  on  occasion,  could  be  more  forcible  than  polite,  and  his 
unvarnished  reception  of  the  vestryman's  proposal  caused  that  rash  but  well- 
meaning  person  to  retire  with  extreme  precipitation." 

Of  all  his  many  pets,  Rossetti  was  perhaps  especially 
devoted  to  his  wombats.  To  one  of  these  he  addressed  the 
lines  : 


x  FRANK  BUCKLAND  231 

"  O  how  the  family  affections  combat 

Within  this  breast,  and  each  hour  flings  a  bomb  at 
My  burning  soul  !  Neither  from  owl  nor  from  bat 
Can  peace  be  gained  until  I  clasp  my  wombat." 

At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  poet  regretted 
his  pet's  inveterate  tendencies  toward  "drain  architecture." 
Rossetti's  domestic  proclivities  must,  one  thinks,  have 
rendered  him  a  terror  to  his  neighbours  !  Indeed,  the  only 
London  inhabitant, —  if  we  except  the  celebrated  "  Lady  of  the 
Cats  "  in  the  desecrated  Carlyle  House, — who  can  be  said  to 
have  at  all  emulated  him  in  that  line,  wras  Frank  Buckland  the 
great  naturalist,  who,  in  his  house,  No.  34,  Albany  Street, 
Regent's  Park,  kept  "a  museum  and  a  menagerie  in  one." 
"  His  house  was  full  of  crawling,  creeping,  barking,  flying, 
swimming,  and  squeaking  things."  When  he  was  at  church 
one  Sunday,  "  Dick,  the  rat,"  he  relates,  "  stole  away  two  five- 
pound  notes  from  my  drawers."  Among  other  creatures  Mr. 
Buckland  kept,  like  Rossetti,  a  laughing  jackass,  wrho  "  would 
never  laugh,"  and  "  who  was  only  provoked  to  a  titter  by  the 
consumption  of  a  toothsome  mouse  "  ;  this  pet  escaped  from 
its  cage  one  day  and  was  found  asleep  on  the  bed  of  a  gentle- 
man near  the  Hampstead  Road.  But  Mr.  Buckland  could  at 
any  rate  excuse  his  vagaries  on  scientific  grounds,  for  he  was 
trying  to  acclimatize  foreign  animals  suitable  for  food  in  this 
country. 

The  fleeting  tide  of  fashion  is  now  at  its  height  in  Chelsea  ; 
the  historic  old  houses  of  Cheyne  Walk  are  let  at  enormous 
rents,  and,  year  by  year,  tall,  prosaic  red-brick  edifices  spring 
up  like  mushrooms  all  round  them.  A  few  old  "bits"  of 
Chelsea  still  remain  unaltered, — but  very  few.  The  old  church, 
and  the  rectory,  the  home  of  the  Kingsleys,  with  its  charming 
old  walled  garden,  are  still  delightful ;  the  embankment  houses, 
standing  back  behind  their  gardens  and  ironwork,  are  fine  in 
their  dignified,  time-hallowed  red-brick ;  Paradise  Row,  that 
picturesque  oasis  of  old  dwellings  that  breaks  the  ugliness  of 


232  PARADISE  ROW  CHAP. 

the  modern  Queen's  Road  West,  yet  bears  witness  to  the 
charm  of  old  Chelsea.  In  humble  Paradise  Row,  (now 
part  of  Queen's  Road  West,  and  converted  to  laundries  and 
other  uses  ;) — in  Paradise  Row,  with  its  quaint  tiled  roofs, 
dormer  windows,  and  high  white  gate-posts,  many  well-known 
people  have  lived ;  it  was  even  connected,  more  or  less,  with 
royalty,  for  in  1692  it  was  the  dwelling  place  of  the  first  Duke 
of  St.  Albans,  Nell  Gwynne's  son.  Chelsea  has  always  been 
associated  with  the  Stuarts.  When  it  was  but  a  picturesque 
riverside  village, — fishermen's  huts  diversified  by  a  few  old 
palaces, — divided  yet  by  space  of  green  fields  from  the  storm 
and  stress  of  the  greater  London, — they  brought  it  wealth 
and  fashion,  and  caused  its  gardens  to  spread  in  fragrant 
greenery  down  to  the  water's  edge.  The  Chelsea  of  the 
Restoration  had  the  patronage  of  the  aristocracy,  as  well  as  that 
of  the  Royal  favourites  ;  here  the  King's  Mistresses  flaunted  their 
grandeur,  their  extravagance,  their  impecuniosity  before  the 
world.  It  was  in  comparatively  humble  Paradise-Row  that  the 
notorious  Duchesse  de  Mazarin  lived  in  her  later  and  bankrupt 
stage ;  here  she  entertained  royally,  and  was,  besides,  in 
arrears  with  the  Parish  Rates.  At  No.  2  in  Paradise  Row 
lived  that  Lord  Robartes,  Earl  of  Radnor,  who,  like  the 
"  Vicar  of  Bray,"  "  trimmed "  so  judiciously  through  the 
Jacobite  wars.  This  house  (No.  2.),  was,  by  the  way,  said  by 
Pepys  to  be  "  the  prettiest  contrived  house  he  ever  saw  in  his 
life." 

King's  Road,  Chelsea, — now  shabby  and  mediocre  enough, 
but  once  the  "  Merry  Monarch's  "  own  private  drive,  and  said 
to  have  been  made  by  him  as  an  easy  access  to  his  favourites' 
suburban  resorts, — leads,  finally,  to  Fulham,  and  to  the  old 
house  called  Sandford  Manor,  traditionally  ascribed  to  Nell 
Gwynne's  tenancy.  This  ancient  marision,  now  divided  into 
two  residences,  is  still  unharmed,  though,  owing  to  its  too 
close  proximity  to  the  Gas  Works,  it  is  now  unhappily 
threatened  with  demolition.  London,  as  we  know,  has  ever 


CHELSEA  OLD  CHURCH  233 

been  more  utilitarian  than  antiquarian  ;  and  perhaps  the  old 
house  owes  its  escape  so  far  to  the  fact  that  "  it  has  been  used 
successively  as  farmhouse,  pottery,  cloth  manufactory,  and 
patent  cask  factory." — (Mr.  Reginald  Blunt,  An  Historical 
Hand- Book  to  Chelsea.}  Nevertheless,  its  pilastered  door- 
way exists  yet,  and,  internally,  it  still  boasts  its  square  wain- 
scoted hall  and  old  staircase,  much  as  they  were  when 
King  Charles,  as  the  story  goes,  rode  his  pony  up  the  stair 
for  a  freak.  The  old  walnut  trees,  said  to  have  been  planted 
by  Nell  Gwynne  herself,  are  gone  ;  but  an  antiquated  mulberry- 
tree  still  defies  the  railway  in  front  of  it,  and  the  awful  Gas 
Works  behind  it— a  very  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  encroaching 
modernity  !  A  delightful  old  house,  and  yet,  surely,  all  its 
historical  glamour  and  romance  would  hardly  enable  even  an 
enthusiast  to  take  up  his  abode  there. 

The  old  Church  of  Chelsea,  otherwise  St.  Luke's, — whose 
tower  of  darkened  red-brick  lends  such  picturesque  effect  to 
the  Battersea  reach  beyond  the  Albert-Bridge, — is,  both  for 
its  antiquity  and  its  monuments,  one  of  the  most  interesting 
churches  in  London.  Its  interior,  never  having  been 
"restored,"  has  a  very  old  world  look;  and  it  still  retains, 
as  when  it  was  built,  all  the  simplicity  of  the  remote  village 
church.  Henry  Kingsley,  whose  boyhood  was  spent  in  the 
delightful  old  Chelsea  rectory,  fittingly  commemorates  his 
father's  church  in  his  best-known  story,  "  The  Hillyars  and  the 
Burtons."  "  Four  hundred  years  of  memory,"  he  makes  Joe 
Burton  say,  "  are  crowded  into  that  old  church,  and  the  great 
flood  of  change  beats  round  the  walls,  and  shakes  the  door  in 
vain,  but  never  enters.  The  dead  stand  thick  together  there, 
as  if  to  make  a  brave  resistance  to  the  moving  world  outside, 
which  jars  upon  their  slumber.  It  is  a  church  of  the  dead." 
Dean  Stanley  greatly  loved  this  church ;  he  used  to  call  it 
"  one  of  the  chapters  of  his  abbey."  Here  Sir  Thomas  More 
worshipped  in  the  days  of  his  power,  and  here,  in  the  chapel 
that  he  built,  is  his  monument.  More  lived  himself  near  by, 


234  THE  PHYSICK  GARDEN  CHAP. 

in  a  now  vanished  mansion  called  "  Beaufort  House,"  where,  in 
his  "  fair  garden,"  he  received  his  friend  Erasmus,  and  also, 
his  king — Henry  walking  with  his  arm  lovingly  placed  about 
his  favourite's  neck — that  neck  he  was  so  soon  to  dissever.  In 
Chelsea  Church  are  the  famous  "  chained  books,"  Sir  Hans 
Sloane's  gift ;  the  Bible,  the  Homilies,  and  Foxe's  Book  of 
Martyrs ;  enormous  volumes  heavily  bound  in  leather  with 
strong  clasps,  chained,  underneath  a  bookcase,  to  a  quaint 
lectern,  where  they  may  be  read.  This  strange  custom  recalls 
the  monkish  days,  when  printed  books  were  so  rare  and  costly. 
The  names  of  the  guardian  spirits  of  Chelsea,  such  as  Lady 
Jane  Cheyne  and  Sir  Hans  Sloane,- — respectively  lady  and  lord 
of  the  manor,  after  whom  so  many  streets,  squares,  and  courts 
have  been  christened, — recur  here  too  on  elaborate  monuments 
and  sarcophagi.  Both  were  great  benefactors  to  their  parish 
church.  Sir  Hans  Sloane's  daughter  was  afterwards  Lady 
Cadogan,  and  hence  it  was  that  the  property  came  into  the 
possession  of  the  Cadogan  family. 

Sir  Hans  Sloane  is  further  commemorated  in  Chelsea  by  his 
gift  to  the  Apothecaries'  Company  of  the  "  Physick  Garden," 
sometimes  also  called  the  "  Botanic  Garden."  This  pleasant 
green  spot,  barred  by  high  railings,  and  intersected  by  many 
paths,  used  to  contain,  and  contains  this  day,  so  far  as  may  be, 
"  all  the  herbs  oiMateria  Medica  which  can  grow  in  the  open  air, 
for  the  instruction  of  medical  students."  The  old  gardens  have 
bravely  withstood  the  vandals  and  iconoclasts  of  modern 
Chelsea,  as  well  as  the  attacks  of  builders,  seeking  what 
they  may  devour  ;  but  the  growth  of  bricks  and  mortar  round 
about  them  has  but  ill  suited  the  delicate  plants,  which,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  grow  now  but  feebly  for  the  most  part.  It  is  long 
since  the  days  of  the  Stuarts, — days  when  the  gardens  of  Chelsea 
could  still  grow  roses.  Nevertheless,  the  "  Physick  Garden  " 
is  still  delightful  for  purposes  quite  other  than  those  for  which 
it  was  first  made  ;  and,  fortunately,  the  terms  of  the  bequest 
render  its  alienation  difficult  and  unlikely.  Perhaps,  in  the 


x  CHELSEA  EMBANKMENT  235 

happy  future,  who  knows  ?  the  garden  may  be  opened  altogether 
to  the  Chelsea  public.  Of  its  original  cedar  trees,  planted  by 
Sir  Hans  Sloane  in  1683,  but  one  now  remains,  and  this  is  very 
decrepit ;  in  its  decrepitude  it  is,  however,  still  quite  as  pic- 
turesque as  it  could  ever  have  been  in  its  prime.  The  river,  in 
pre-Embankment  days,  flowed  close  by  the  Physick  Garden, 
the  modern  roadway  and  parade  being  land  embanked  and 
reclaimed  from  the  river.  The  Watergate  to  Sir  Hans's  garden 
has,  in  consequence,  disappeared ;  but  his  statue,  erected  in 
1733,  still  stands,  bewigged  and  robed,  chipped  and  stained, 
on  its  pedestal  by  the  historic  cedar  tree. 

Close  by  was  the  site  of  Chelsea  Ferry,  and  it  was  near  here 
that  the  Old  Swan  Tavern,  with  its  attractive  wooden  balconies 
projecting  over  the  river,  and  an  entrance  from  Queen's  Road, 
used  to  stand.  This  was  the  famous  tavern,  house  of  call  for 
barges,  and  resort  of  so  many  distinguished  pleasure  parties, 
that  used  to  serve  as  goal  for  the  annual  race, — prototype  of  the 
modern  Oxford  and  Cambridge  race, — that  was  rowed  by  the 
young  Thames  watermen  for  the  prizes  of  the  "  Doggett " 
badge  and  the  coat  full  of  pockets  and  guineas.  The  tavern  was 
destroyed  in  1873  to  make  room  for  the  new  Embankment, 
which  has  so  completely  changed  the  aspect  of  all  this  part 
of  the  river.  To  quote  a  writer  in  the  Art  Journal Tor  1881  : — 

"  No  doubt  the  Embankment  at  Chelsea  was  needed  ;  no  doubt  the 
broad  margin  of  mud  which  used  to  fringe  old  Cheyne  Walk  was  very  un- 
healthy in  summer-time  ;  yet  no  one  who  cares  for  what  is  quaint  and 
picturesque,  and  who  clings  to  relics  of  the  old  days  of  which  we  shall  soon 
have  no  traces  left,  can  recall  the  river  strand  at  Chelsea,  with  its  wharfs 
and  its  water-stairs,  its  barges  and  its  altogether  indescribable  but  most 
picturesque  aspect,  and  not  feel  as  he  looks  at  the  trim  even  wall  of  the 
Embankment,  and  the  broad  monotonous  pavement  above  it,  even  if  he 
does  not  say  in  words,  '  Oh,  the  difference  to  me  ! ' " 

On  the  site  of  the  ancient  tavern  is  now  built  "  Old  Swan 
House,"  a  modern-antique  mansion  designed  in  a  charming 
style  by  Mr.  Norman  Shaw.  A  few  paces  westward  from 


236  CHELSEA  HOSPITAL  CHAP. 

Old  Swan  House,  the  modern  red-brick  Tite  Street,  full  of 
artists'  studios  and  of  the  elect,  runs  up  towards  Queen's 
Road.  Tite  Street  is,  so  far  as  its  externals  go,  somewhat  dark 
and  shut  in  by  its  tall  houses ;  but  it  more  than  atones  for  any 
outside  dulness  by  the  excessive  light  and  learning  of  its 
interiors.  "The  White  House,"  near  the  lower  end  of  the 
street  on  the  right,  was  built  for  Mr.  Whistler.  Further  up  the 
street — also  on  the  right — is  "  Gough  House,"  a  fine  old 
mansion  of  Charles  IPs  time,  now  most  happily  adapted  to 
the  needs  of  the  Victoria  Hospital  for  Sick  Children. 

Close  to  the  site  of  the  old  "  Rotunda  "  of  Ranelagh,  is  the 
famous  "  Royal  Military  Hospital,"  usually-  called  "  Chelsea 
Hospital,  and  made  familiar  to  all  the  world  outside  London 
by  Herkomer's  great  pictures,  "  The  Last  Muster "  and 
"  Chelsea  Pensioners."  It  was  John  Evelyn  who  first  gained 
Charles  II's  consent  to  the  erection  of  a  Royal  Hospital  for 
veteran  soldiers  on  this  site, — though  local  tradition,  apparently 
without  any  reason  at  all,  persists  in  attributing  its  foundation  to 
Nell  Gwynne,  who,  with  all  her  frailties,  was  ever  the  people's 
darling,  and  especially  a  Chelsea  darling.  The  Hospital 
building  —an  open  quadrangle  with  wings,-  -was  designed  by 
Wren.  In  colour  as  well  as  form,  it  is  solid  and  reposeful — a 
noble  example  of  Wren's  style  and  taste.  The  gardens,  open 
to  the  public  during  the  day,  have  something  of  the  calm 
regularity  of  old  Dutch  palaces.  But  then  Chelsea,  in  building 
as  in  horticulture,  had  always  a  tendency  to  the  neat  Dutch 
formalism  of  WTilliam  and  Mary. 

A  little  north  of  Chelsea  Hospital,  between  the  modern  Union 
Street  and  Westbourne  Street,  stood,  in  the  days  of  the  Georges, 
the  "  Old  Original  Chelsea  Bun-House,"  that  was  for  so  long  the 
resort  of  eighteenth-century  fashion.  Hither  used  to  drive 
George  I.  and  his  consort,  Caroline  of  Anspach ;  George  III. 
and  Queen  Charlotte  also  came  here  in  person  to  fetch  their 
buns  home,  which,  of  course,  set  the  fashion.  The  old 
house  had  a  picturesque  colonnade  ;  but  in  1839  new  pro- 


x  THE  PAST  AND  THE  FUTURE  237 

prietors  rebuilt  it ;  which  rash  proceeding,  however,  killed  the 
custom. 

Since  Stuart  and  early  Hanoverian  days,  times  have  changed 
for  Chelsea  and  Kensington ;  they  are  now,— as  more  distant 
Hammersmith  and  Fulham  are  rapidly  becoming,  and  as 
Putney  and  Dulwich  soon  threaten  to  be, — integral  parts  of  the 
"monster  London,"  that,  like  a  great  irresistible  flood,  in 
spreading  absorbs  all  the  peaceful  little  pools  that  lie  in  its 
path.  The  squalor  and  the  gloom,  as  well  as  the  splendour 
and  the  riches  of  the  great  city,  are  now  their  heritage.  Never 
more  will  the  waves  lap  peacefully  at  Chelsea  along  the  river's 
shelving  shores  ;  never  again  will  the  streets  and  squares  of 
old  Kensington  regain  their  former  seclusion  and  calm. 
Instead,  a  modern,  and,  let  us  hope,  a  yearly  more  beautiful 
city  will  spread,  gradually  and  certainly,  over  all  the  available 
area.  Chelsea  and  Kensington  in  the  past  have  had  many 
glories  ;  who  can  say  what  splendid  fortune  may  yet  be  theirs  ? 
And  we  who  lament  the  inevitable  changes  of  time,  must 
remember  that  they  are  still  living  cities,  hallowed  by  their 
past,  interesting  by  their  present,  but  whose  greater  and  more 
enduring  magnificence  is  yet  to  come. 


CHAPTER  XI 

BLOOMSBURY 

"  Some  love  the  Chelsea  river  gales, 
And  the  slow  barges'  ruddy  sails, 
And  these  I'll  woo  when  glamour  fails 

In  Bloomsbury. 

"  Enough  for  me  in  yonder  square 
To  see  the  perky  sparrows  pair, 
Or  long  laburnum  gild  the  air 

In  Bloomsbury. 

"  Enough  for  me  in  midnight  skies 
To  see  the  moons  of  London  rise, 
And  weave  their  silver  fantasies 

In  Bloomsbury. 

"  Oh,  mine  in  snows  and  summer  heats, 
These  good  old  Tory  brick-built  streets  ! 
My  eye  is  pleased  with  all  it  meets 

In  Bloomsbury." 

THE  peculiar  and  somewhat  old-world  charm  of  Bloomsbury 
is,  like  that  of  Chelsea,  only  made  known  to  her  devotees. 
To  the  visitor  to  London,  no  less  than  to  the  fashionable 
dweller  in  the  West-End,  it  is  a  grimy,  sordid,  squalid  region, 
where  slums  abound,  where  "no  nice  people  live,"  and  where 
mere  "  going  out  to  dinner  "  necessitates  either  the  paying  of  a 
half-crown  cab  fare,  or  the  sacrifice  of  an  hour  in  the  bone-shaking 
omnibus.  Hence  arises  the  custom  of  saying  that  "  Blooms- 
bury  is  so  far  away."  Of  course,  the  distance  or  proximity  of 


IN  BLOOMSBURY 


239 


any  part  of  London  depends  on  what  one  chooses  for  the  centre  ; 
but,  taking  either  Oxford  Circus  or  Charing-Cross — surely 
natural  enough  centres — as  the  diverging  point,  Bloomsbury 
is  more  central  than  any  residential,  part  of  the  metropolis. 


The  German  Band. 

But  even  at  the  play  poor  Bloomsbury  is  maligned  ;  and  this, 
too,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  it  is  the  chosen  abode  of  so 
many  of  the  theatrical  profession.  "They  call  the  place 
where  I  live,  Bloomsbury,"  says  Mr.  Todman,  the  old  second- 
hand bookseller  of  Liberty  Hall,  "  though  why  Bloomsbury,  I 


240  "A  HOME  FROM  HOME"  CHAP. 

don't  know ;  for  there  ain't  so  much  bloomin'  as  there  is 
buryin',"  (this,  by  the  way,  is  a  two-edged  libel,  for  Bloomsbury 
being  on  high  ground  is  notoriously  healthy).  And  then  the 
same  gentleman  goes  on  to  remark,  "  they  call  my  'ouse  a 
ramblin'  one,  though  why  it  ain't  rambled  away  to  some  nicer 
place,  I  can't  think."  We  get,  from  the  same  play,  a  further 
impression  that  the  Bloomsburians  live  mainly  on  a  dish 
called  "  Smoked  'Addick."  Perhaps  the  dramatist  was  led  to 
this  conclusion  from  the  very  pervading  smell  of  fried  fish  that 
fills  certain  "  unlovely  streets "  of  cookshops  or  boarding- 
houses  ;  where,  however,  in  my  experience  the  'addick  aroma 
has  always  yielded  the  palm  to  that  of  "  sheeps'-trotters " 
or  "  stewed  eels."  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  old  solidly  built 
squares  and  houses  of  Bloomsbury  have  a  dignity  of  their 
own.  Some  of  the  streets  have,  it  is  true,  "  come  down  in 
the  world ; "  nevertheless,  in  their  decay  they  retain  a  mournful 
look  of  having  known  better  days, — a  look  that  even  their 
tenement  rooms,  —their  broken  windows,  half-stuffed  with  paper, 
— their  shock-headed  dirty  inmates, — cannot  altogether  abolish 
or  destroy.  Dickens,  who  always  saw  the  human  side  of  every- 
thing, has  often  noticed  the  peculiar  pathos  of  some  of  these 
old,  world-forgotten  houses.  In  his  inimitable  Sketches  by  Boz 
he  gives  a  graphic  account  of  the  gradual  decay  of  a  house 
"over  the  water."  Here,  the  process  is  somewhat  similar. 
First,  it  changes  from  a  private  dwelling-house  to  a  "select 
boarding-house  "  ;  then,  it  becomes  a  friendly,  social  affair,  a 
"Home  from  Home"  ;  then,  its  area  steps  become  dirtier,  its 
cook  sits  on  them,  shelling  peas,  and  exchanging  jokes  with 
the  milkman ;  it  blossoms  out  in  gaudy  paint,  like  a  decorator's 
shop;  cracked  flowerpots,  of  odd  shapes  and  sizes,  adorn  its 
windows ;  and  it  descends,  by  slow  degrees,  yet  further  in  the 
scale  of  "  gentility,"  till  finally  it  becomes  a  mere  tenement 
house,  its  juvenile  population  going  in  and  out  with  jugs  of 
beer,  its  area  railings  hung  round  with  pewter  milk-pots,  and 
its  door  ornamented  with  a  row  of  half-broken  bell-chains  for 


xi  THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  BLOOMSBURY  241 

the  different  occupants.  And,  if  you  should  chance,  too 
hurriedly,  to  ring  one  of  these  in  search  of  a  special  inhabitant, 
ten  to  one  a  cross,  dirty-faced  female  will  appear,  grumbling  : 
"  Can't  yer  see  as  this  'ere  is  Mrs.  Smith's  bell  ? — Two  pair  back 
— ye've  rung  the  wrong  'un  !  " 

The  Bloomsbury  houses  are  pathetic,  however,  not  so  much 
from  age,  as  because  their  glory  has  departed, — because  they 
have  had  their  day,  and  ceased  to  be ;  for,  in  the  matter  of  actual 
age,  few  of  them  date  back  farther  than  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Queen  Square,  indeed,  which  is  far  prior  to  any  of 
its  neighbouring  squares,  was  laid  out  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Anne,  in  whose  honour  it  was  named,  and  whose  statue  still 
adorns  it.  It  is  a  curiously  shaped  square,  for,  though  enclosed, 
no  houses  were  built  at  the  northern  end ;  this  arrangement 
was  made  for  the  sake  of  the  fine  view  of  the  hills  of  Highgate 
and  Hampstead,  that  the  square  then  commanded.  Strange 
transformation  !  The  Bloomsbury  that  we  know  was  then  all 
fields ;  the  houses  of  Queen  Square  being,  so  to  speak,  the 
last  sentinels  of  the  London  of  that  day  !  Rocques'  map  of 
1 746  gives  no  houses  beyond  the  northern  end  of  Southampton 
Row.  Between  Great  Russell  Street  and  the  present  Euston 
Road,  was  then  open  country, — called,  first,  the  "  Long  Fields," 
— then  "  Southampton  Fields,"  or  "  Lamb's  Conduit  Fields." 
Earlier,  they  were  famous  for  their  peaches  and  their  snipes ; 
but  in  about  1800  they  were  mainly  waste  ground,  where  brawling 
and  disorderly  sports  took  place,  and  where  superstition 
asserted  that,  two  brothers  having  fought  there  about  a  lady, 
the  footsteps  they  made  in  their  death- struggle  would  never 
again  grow  grass  or  herb  !  "The  Brothers'  Steps,"  the  place 
was  called,  or,  "The  Field  of  the  Forty  Footsteps."  The 
present  Gordon  Square  is  said  to  be  built  upon  the  exact 
spot.  The  place  had,  however,  always  been  rife  with  super- 
stition ;  for  here,  on  Midsummer-Day,  in  the  iyth  century, 
young  women  would  come  looking  for  a  plantain-leaf,  to 
put  under  their  pillows,  so  that  they  should  dream  of  their 

R 


242  OLD  BEDFORD  HOUSE  CHAP. 

future  husbands.  From  these  fields  could  be  seen,  in  1746  and 
far  later,  but  two  or  three  nobles'  mansions,  enclosed  in  their 
gardens, — such  as  "  Bedford  House,"  pulled  down  to  build 
Bedford  Square, — "  Baltimore  House,"  long  since  built  into 
Russell  Square, — and  "  Montague  House,"  now  rebuilt  as  the 
British  Museum  ; — with  the  old  "  Whitefield's  Tabernacle " 
appearing  through  the  trees  towards  the  gardens  of  the  ancient 
manor  of  "  Toten  Court,"  which  gave  its  romantic  name  to 
the  essentially  unromantic  Tottenham  Court  Road.  (The  ugly 
"  Adam  and  Eve  "  public-house,  at  the  junction  of  Euston  Road 
and  Tottenham  Court  Road,  now  occupies  the  place  both  of 
the  old  tavern  of  that  name,  and  the  older  manor-house.) 

The  name  "  Bloomsbury  "  is,  however,  of  more  remote  date ; 
it  is,  like  most  London  appellations,  a  "  corruption,"  and  comes 
from  "  Blemundsbury,"  the  manor  of  the  De  Blemontes,  or 
Blemunds,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  III.  Later,  the  manor  of 
Bloomsbury  came,  together  with  that  of  the  neighbouring  St. 
Giles,  into  the  possession  of  the  Earls  of  Southampton,  till  in 
1668  it  passed  with  Lady  Rachel, — daughter  of  Thomas 
Wriothesley,  last  Earl,  by  her  marriage  with  Lord  William 
Russell, — into  the  family  of  the  Dukes  of  Bedford,  the  present 
owners.  Lord  William  Russell, — who  was  beheaded,  without  a 
fair  trial,  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  in  1683,  for  supposed  con- 
nection with  the  famous  Rye  House  Plot, — lived  in  Bedford 
House  (formerly  Southampton  House),  on  the  northern  side  of 
Bloomsbury,  originally  Southampton,  Square.  (The  house 
occupied  the  whole  north  side  of  the  square  until  pulled  down 
in  1802,  after  the  illustrious  Russells  had  lived  there  for  more 
than  200  years.)  This  was  the  house  admired  by  Evelyn,  in  an 
entry  in  his  diary  of  February  9,  1665  :  "  Dined  at  my  Lord 
Treasurer's,  the  Earle  of  Southampton,  in  Blomesbury,  where 
he  was  building  a  noble  square  or  piazza,  a  little  towne ;  some 
noble  rooms,  a  pretty  cedar  chappell,  a  naked  garden  to  the  north, 
but  good  aire  ".  It  was  at  first  intended  that  Lord  William 
Russell  should  suffer  in  Bloomsbury  Square,  opposite  his  own 


xi  BLOOMSBURY  SQUARE  243 

residence ;  but  this  was  apparently  opposed  by  the  King  as  too 
indecent.  .  .  .  Poor,  heroic  Lady  Rachel  Russell  !  She  lived 
here  in  retirement  till  her  death,  at  the  age  of  86,  in  the  reign 
of  George  I.  She  had,  indeed,  like  Polycrates,  given  her 
treasured  "ring  ",  and  could  fear  no  more  from  fate.  The  great 
landlords  of  London  may  get  their  "  unearned  increment "  easily 
enough  now,  yet  they  had  to  pay  the  penalty  of  greatness  in  the 
past ! 

Bloomsbury  Square,  though  now  rapidly  becoming  simply  a 
square  of  offices  and  business  premises  generally,  was,  in  the 
time  of  Charles  I,  the  most  fashionable  and  most  admired  Square 
in  London.  Pope,  later,  alludes  to  it  in  the  following  couplet : 

"  In  Palace  yard,  at  nine,  you'll  find  me  there — 
At  ten,  for  certain,  sir,  in  Bloomsbury  Square—" 

Here,  in  less  ancient  days,  lived  the  great  judge,  Lord  Mansfield, 
whose  house  was  burned  during  the  Gordon  Riots,  in  1780  ;  the 
mob  threw  his  pictures,  valuable  books,  and  manuscripts,  out  of 
the  windows  and  made  a  bonfire  of  them,  while  he  and  his  wife 
escaped  for  their  lives  by  the  back  of  the  building.  Sir  Hans 
Sloane,  the  founder  of  the  British  Museum,  lived  at  one  time  in 
this  square ;  also,  Sir  Richard  Steele,  who,  giving  here  a  grand 
entertainment  during  financial  distresses,  was  waited  on  by 
bailiffs  disguised  as  lacqueys ;  and,  finally,  Isaac  d'Israeli,  the 
father  of  Lord  Beaconsfield  :  who  wrote  his  Curiosities  of  Litera- 
ture at  No.  6.  "  His  only  amusement,"  says  his  son,  who,  as 
an  infant,  used  to  toddle  round  the  square  with  his  nursemaid, 
"was  to  ramble  about  the  booksellers'  shops,"  still  so  frequent 
in  this  vicinity.  About  1760,  the  square  was  still  so  countri- 
fied that  the  Duchess  of  Bedford  used  to  send  out  cards  to  her 
guests,  inviting  them  to  Bedford  House  to  "take  tea  and  walk 
in  the  fields  " ;  while  their  coachmen  "  were  regaled  with  the 
perfume  of  the  flower-beds  of  the  gardens  in  Great  Russell 
Street."  Within  the  enclosure  is  now  a  bronze  statue  of  Charles 
James  Fox,  by  Westmacott. 

R  2 


244  BLOOMSBURY  SQUARES  AND  GARDENS          CHAP. 

These  old  London  squares,  with  their  tall  plane  trees,  their 
luxuriant  and  well-ordered  garden  enclosures,  convey  a  delight- 
ful sense,  even  now,  of  leisure  and  repose.  No  one  in 
Bloomsbury,  Tavistock,  or  Russell  Squares  would  imagine  that 
behind  those  green  masses  of  foliage, — beyond  the  blue  mist  into 
which  they  melt  so  picturesquely, — lies  that  great  "  cauldron  "  or 
"  fermenting  vat,"  as  Carlyle  would  say,  of  busy  London.  Yet 
it  is  there,  but  a  stone's  throw,  indeed,  away.  In  the  squares 
the  birds  twitter  and  chirp ;  vistas  of  entwined  branches,  leafy 
glades,  hide  the  glaring  continuity  of  the  streets  and  houses ; 
you  might  think  yourself  in  some  suburban  haunt  of  peace. 
Even  the  rumble  of  the  wheels  in  neighbouring  Southampton  Row 
and  Holborn  seems,  in  Russell  Square  in  summer,  like  a  soothing 
tune  "  to  rock  a  child  asleep."  You  feel  in  the  world,  yet  not  of 
it;  close  to  the  "  mighty  pulse  of  the  machine,"  yet  in  your  garden 
enclosed,  and  at  rest.  .  .  .  And  in  the  back  gardens  of  the 
houses  themselves  (for  some  of  the  old  mansions  yet  have 
gardens,  entered  occasionally  from  side  streets  by  mysterious 
Jekyll  and  Hyde  doorways)  it  is  the  same.  I  know  a  "  back- 
yard "  that  still  boasts  its  mulberry  tree,  bursting  its  fat  green 
buds  gaily  in  the  spring ;  and  another  that  can  flaunt,  when 
"  soft  April  wakes,"  its  hedge  of  fragrant  lilac.  The  "  daughters 
of  the  varying  year  "  deign  to  notice  us  even  in  Bloomsbury, 
though  they  may  not,  perhaps,  condescend  to  stay  with  us 
quite  so  long.  (But  then  we  do  not  ourselves,  as  a  rule,  pay 
such  long  visits  in  London  as  in  the  country.)  Still,  the  crocus 
' '  breaks  like  fire  "  at  our  feet  in  the  spring  ;  the  graceful  bells 
of  the  foxglove  usher  us  pleasantly  into  the  autumn  ;  and  in 
London,  imprisoned  in  brick,  who  shall  say  how  we  love  our 
"prison  flower  ?  " 

The  literary  associations  of  Bloomsbury  are  yet  another 
feature  of  its  charm.  Though  Russell  Square  and  its  surround- 
ings generally  are  being  gradually  rebuilt  and  improved,  yet 
in  some  places  you  can  still  see  the  actual  old  houses  standing 
that,  in  the  century's  early  years,  were  the  homes  of  celebrated 


xi  RUSSELL  SQUARE  245 

men.  Thus,  No.  65  in  Russell  Square  was  the  abode  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence,  the  painter,  and  here  he  received  the 
distinguished  sitters,  the  eminent  men  and  fair  ladies  who  have 
made  his  name  famous.  Here,  for  instance,  at  this  common- 
place house  door,  while  the  Russian  general  Platoff  was  having 
his  portrait  painted  inside,  were  posted  his  attendant  Cossacks, 
"  mounted"  says  an  eye-witness,  "on  their  small  white  horses, 
with  their  long  spears  grounded,"  standing  as  sentinels  at  the 
door  of  the  great  painter.  Lawrence  died  here  in  1830,  and 
the  house  is  not  in  essentials  altered  since  his  day.  At  No.  5 
in  the  square  lived,  from  1856  to  1862,  Frederick  Denison 
Maurice,  the  "  Christian  Socialist,"  and  here  he  held  his  famous 
"prophetic  breakfasts."  At  No.  56  Mary  Russell  Mitford 
stayed  in  1836.  The  house  near  by — No.  66 — is  a  curious 
survival  of  the  days  when  Bloomsbury  was  a  centre  of  fashion. 
Its  enormous  size,  its  palatial  reception  rooms,  its  tall  corridors, 
now  deserted  and  solitary  except  for  a  few  colossal  statues  in 
niches,  all  suggest  the  glare  of  light,  the  sound  of  music,  the 
rustle  of  fine  dresses  that  filled  it  in  old  days.  Hawthorne 
and  Dickens  suggested  that  old  houses  felt  and  suffered ;  the 
same  idea  intrudes  itself  upon  us  here.  The  rusted  iron  arches 
that  used  in  the  old  days  to  support  lamps, — now  darkened, — 
still  hang  here  and  there  in  Bloomsbury  streets ;  and,  in  some 
cases  the  actual  iron  torch-extinguishers  that  were  used  when 
sedan  chairs  were  in  fashion,  remain  to  tell  their  story  of  ancient 
grandeur.  Nothing  is  in  its  way  more  plaintive  than  an  old  and 
desolate  house  of  this  kind ;  its  glory  departed,  its  decorations 
falling  to  decay,  its  "  garden  "  a  wilderness  of  walls,  roofs,  and 
broken  bottles,  its  rooms,  even,  perchance,  in  course  of  being 
broken  up  into  solicitors'  or  other  offices.  Bloomsbury  Square, 
indeed — the  square  nearest  to  Holborn — has,  in  this  way, 
entirely  merged  into  offices,  the  residents  being  practically 
ousted.  But  Russell  Square,  despite  the  new  Russell  Hotel 
that  rises  palatially  along  its  north-eastern  block,  and  despite 
the  large  Pitman's  School  of  Shorthand  at  its  south-eastern 


246  "VANITY  FAIR"  CHAP. 

corner,  is  still  almost  entirely  residential.  None  of  its  modern 
innovations  can  altogether  abolish  or  destroy  the  spirit  and 
feeling  of  Thackeray  that  it  breathes.  Here  lived  old  Osborne, 
the  purse-proud  banker ;  there  is  going  on  old  Sedley's  sale  ; 
I  can  see  the  packing-cases,  the  "  loafers  "  and  the  vans  at  this 
moment ;  and  here,  by  these  very  prosaic  green  square  railings, 
is  Amelia,  sad  and  black  garbed,  looking  with  tear-filled  eyes 
for  her  boy  George.  Now  that  she  comes  into  the  light,  I 
see  that  she  is  only  a  nurse  from  one  of  the  Great  Ormond 
Street  or  Queen  Square  hospitals,  or,  perhaps,  a  "  Salvation 
Army"  lassie  ;  but  for  the  moment  she  was  Amelia,  poke-bonnet 
and  all,  to  the  life.  Even  the  historic  square  railings  are  just 
the  same  as  when  Thackeray  drew  them,  and  Amelia  beside 
them,  in  ch.  50  of  Vanity  Fair,  The  numerous  pupils  of 
Pitman's  Shorthand  Institute  now  flock,  unprotected,  down 
Southampton  Row,  where  little  Amelia  and  her  kind,  in  the  early 
years  of  the  century,  walked,  followed  by  "  Black  Sambo,"  with 
an  enormous  cane.  Little  Amelia,  whose  simple  strolls  in  the 
square  were  guarded  by  the  beadle ;  and  before  whose  door, 
when  asleep,  "  the  watchman  sang  the  hours."  The  big  houses 
— their  fireplaces  and  ceilings  often  decorated  by  Adam,  their 
"powder-closets,"  curious  relics  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  still 
existing,  in  many  cases,  behind  the  drawing-rooms  —  yet  flaunt 
their  enormous  kitchens,  laundries,  and  basements,  fitted  with 
endless  bedrooms  and  offices  for  butlers  and  retainers,  such 
as  old  Mr.  Sedley's  "  Black  Sambo"  and  his  tribe.  They  are 
out  of  date  in  this  region  now,  but  the  Bedford  estate  will  not 
remodel  them  entirely  so  long  as  their  outer  walls  are  solid  ; 
and  that  these  mansions  existed  long  before  the  modern  jerry- 
building  days,  their  firm  walls  give  abundant  proof. 

But  change  is  at  work  everywhere  in  this  region.  Flats  ascend- 
ing to  a  terrific  height  are  erected  in  every  direction  ;  of  these 
"  Bedford  Court,"  with  its  foreign-looking  inner  glazed  court- 
yard is  the  most  outwardly  picturesque.  It  does  not  seem  long 
since  the  "  gates  and  bars  "  went ;  and  soon,  no  doubt,  a  new 


xi  SUMMER  TOURISTS  247 

Electric  Railway  will  continue  its  tunnels  and  stations  along 
Southampton  Row  from  Holborn  to  King's  Cross. 

The  principal  reason,  of  course,  for  the  modern  unfashioiv 
ableness  of  Bloomsbury  is  to  be  found  in  its  inhabitants  ;  it 
is,  practically,  a  city  of  cheap  boarding-houses.  It  will  be 
interesting  to  see  how  the  big  new  Russell  Hotel  in  Russell- 
Square  will  affect  these.  Though  boarding-houses  are  vetoed  in 
the  big  squares,  they  abound  everywhere  else.  They  are 
chiefly  frequented  by  Americans  and  Germans,  who,  through 
the  late  summer  and  autumn,  throng  the  streets,  generally 
discoverable  by  their  red  "  Baedekers,"  no  less  than  by  their 
speech.  It  is,  in  fact,  in  July  or  August,  more  common,  just 
here,  to  hear  German  spoken  than  English.  London,  it  has 
been  ascertained,  attracts  now  a  greater  number  of  tourists  than 
any  other  place  in  the  world,  and  these  tourists  mostly  lodge 
in  Bloomsbury.  The  theatrical  world,  also,  lives  largely  about 
here  — it  is  so  convenient  for  the  theatres  ;  but  it  prefers,  for  its 
part,  private  lodgings,  or  flats.  Yet,  even  with  all  this  yearly 
influx  from  other  nations,  Bloomsbury  is  wonderfully  little  known 
to  the  world  of  shops  or  of  fashion.  Oxford  Circus  is  only 
distant  ten  minutes  from  the  Russell  Hotel,  yet  "where  is 
Russell  Square  ?  "  is  no  uncommon  question,  even  in  a  shop  as 
big  as  Peter  Robinson's.  "  Where  is  Russell  Square  ? "  is, 
indeed,  an  almost  classical  question ;  for  it  was  made  in  so 
august  a  place  as  the  House  of  Commons,  by  so  omniscient 
a  being  as  Mr.  Croker.  It  is  crushing — but  so  it  is.  You 
might  as  well,  in  the  world's  eyes,  live  at  Fulham  or  Kenning- 
ton  Park.  "  Why  do  you  live  so  far  away  ? "  is  a  question 
constantly  asked  of  the  Bloomsbury  resident  by  people  from 
distant  Battersea  or  Campden  Hill,  whom  it  would  be  useless 
to  try  to  undeceive.  "  The  very  absence  of  any  knowledge  of 
this  locality,"  said  a  noted  wit,  "  is  accounted  a  mark  of  high 
breeding."  Among  those  who  have  spoken  despitefully  of 
Bloomsbury  is  Mr.  Gladstone.  Sir  Algernon  West  records  a 
conversation  about  Panizzi,  and  his  "  sad,  ill  days  before  his 


248  A  BLOOMSBURY  STREET  CORNER  CHAP. 

death,"  "which  Mr.  Gladstone  attributed  greatly  to  the  fact  of 
his  living  in  Bloomsbury  Square."  But,  with  all  respect  to 
Mr.  Gladstone,  it  may  be  submitted  that  Panizzi  would  have 
died  anywhere,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  have 
lived  anywhere  except  in  his  beloved  Museum-land.  Blooms- 
bury,  too,  is  Whig  territory,  and  it  was  too  bad  of  Mr.  Glad- 
stone to  identify  it  with  the  Inferno. 

Its  social  glory  may  have  passed  away  from  Bloomsbury, 
but  pathetic  little  scenes  from  a  lower  strata  of  life  daily  enact 
themselves  here  before  our  eyes.  For  the  poor  we  have, 
indeed,  always  with  us.  Here,  for  instance,  to  a  certain  humble 
street  corner,  has  come  for  many  years  an  old  blind  man 
who  sells  collar-studs.  He  arrives  punctually  every  morning, 
led  along  carefully  by  his  wife.  Once  arrived,  his  mode  of 
procedure  is  always  the  same. 

He  first  goes  to  an  iron  railing  attached  to  an  uninviting 
blind  wall,  and  proceeds,  with  a  key,  to  extract  thence  a 
rickety  wooden  seat,  padlocked  on  to  the  railing.  This  he 
takes  to  his  accustomed  spot,  an  old  hoarding  of  ancient  date, 
where  he  is  allowed  by  sufferance  of  the  authorities  ;  when 
the  hoarding  is  removed,  the  old  man  will  lose  his  means  of 
living  unless  he  find  another  haunt.  His  wife  helps  him  across 
the  road,  and  leaves  him  to  sit  patiently  all  day,  east  wind, 
wet,  or  shine,  selling  studs.  At  five  o'clock  she  again  appears 
to  fetch  him  home  to  tea.  Once  I  witnessed  a  little  domestic 
drama  between  the  two.  It  arose  thus.  The  old  man  had 
been  talking  one  day  to  another  woman, — a  decrepit  old  waif 
she  was, — and,  when  the  wife  returned,  the  poor  old  husband 
had  to  expiate  his  flirtation  sorely.  His  wife  "  let  him  have  it " 
all  the  way  over  the  return  crossing,  undeterred  by  passing 
'buses,  or  cabmens'  jeers,  from  "  speaking  her  mind  "  ;  and 
she  was  still  hard  at  it,  to  judge  from  her  thin  shoulders  and 
her  gesticulations,  as  they  passed  out  of  sight  together  into  the 
foggy  night. 

"  Pavement  artists,"  too,  select  the  near  neighbourhood  of  the 


PAVEMENT  ARTISTS 


249 


squares  as  their  favoured  haunt.  These  "  open  air  pastellists," 
as  they  have  been  called,  are  a  curious,  unshaven,  dilapidated 
race,  with  an  indescribable  "  come-down-in-the-world "  look 
about  them  ;  and  their  lot  seems  hardly  an  enviable  one. 
Their  "  plant,"  it  is  true,  is  not  large  ;  a  few  coloured  chalks 
and  a  soft  duster  form  all  their  necessary  stock  in-trade. 


The  Pavement  Artist. 


Gifted  often  with  a  fair  amount  of  technical  ability,  they  lead 
the  passer  by  to  wonder,  whether,  given  happier  circumstances 
and  a  less  vivid  acquaintance  with  the  bar  of  the  public- house, 
they  might  not  now  be  exhibiting  their  efforts  on  the  sacred 
walls  of  the  Royal  Academy.  Not  that  the  Royal  Academy 
pictures  themselves  would,  for  that  matter,  if  they  could  be 
painted  on  the  pavement,  draw  so  many  coppers  as  the  lurid 


250  NATURE  AND  ART  CHAP. 

representations  of  railway  accidents,  or  the  scenes  of  domestic 
bliss,  or  the  "  Mother's  Grave  "  (the  public  love  sentiment  and 
pathos),  or  even  the  innocent  mackerel  or  salmon,  "  as  like  as 
like,"  that  form  the  repertoire  of  the  pavement  artist  His 
wares,  to  catch  pennies,  have  to  be  highly  coloured,  if  nothing 
else.  His  trials  are  many ;  dust  and  rain  efface  his  pictures, 
drunken  navvies  fall  foul  of  him,  cramp  attacks  his  legs,  and 
east  wind  benumbs  his  fingers,  till,  poor  wretch,  no  wonder 
that  he  repairs,  with  his  hardly-won  money,  to  the  nearest 
public-house, — the  poor  man's  refuge.  He  is,  on  the  other  hand, 
not  obliged  to  rise  early  or  to  work  after  dark,  and  it  is  said 
that  occasionally  his  takings  average  as  much  as  4/6  per  day, 
although  an  amateur  who  recently  tried  his  hand  at  the 
business  only  gained  3^,  a  violent  headache,  and  nearly  a 
sunstroke.  There  is,  it  is  true,  a  new  and  degenerate  kind  of 
Pavement  Artist,  who,  instead  of  painstakingly  bedaubing  the 
same  "  pitch  "  day  after  day,  brings  out  with  him  a  series  of 
highly-coloured  oil-pictures  on  cardboard  ;  the  public,  however, 
have  already  discovered  him  to  be  a  hollow  fraud.  There  is 
also  said  to  be  in  existence  one  young  lady  pavement  artist,  in 
sailor  hat  and  neat  get-up  (though  where  her  present  "  pitch  " 
may  be  I  know  not),  who  labels  herself  proudly  "  the  only 
one  in  England." 

That  Londoners  are  great  lovers  of  the  picturesque  may  be 
seen  from  the  admiring  crowd  that  surround  the  pavement 
artist ;  they  prefer  Nature,  however,  brought  "  home  "  to  them 
in  crude  and  garish  colours.  Yet,  as  likely  as  not,  when  the 
shabby  pastellist  has  put  away  chalks  and  duster  for  the  day, 
and  betaken  himself  to  his  nightly  refuge  in  Soho  or  Hatton 
Garden,  the  sky  behind  him  will  robe  itself  in  intense  hues  of 
orange,  purple,  and  crimson  that  baffle  imitation,  and  before 
which  even  pavement-art  fades  into  insignificance.  For  the 
sunset-skies  of  London  are  a  marvel.  All  through  the  vary- 
ing year  they  are  beautiful,  but  in  September  and  October 
they  are  at  their  best.  The  sun  either  sinks,  a  bold  red  disc, 


xi    -  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 


251 


behind  the  black  houses  and  still  blacker  plane  trees,  or  it 
clothes  its  retreat  with  bright  purple  and  madder  clouds, 
against  which,  with  their  golden  background,  the  tree  branches 
show  dark  like  prison-bars.  Was  it,  perhaps,  on  these  sunset- 
skies  that  Christina  Rossetti  gazed  when  she  wrote  her  most 
inspired  poems  ?  And  was  it  from  the  small  window  of  her 
gloomy  little  house  in  Torrington  Square,  "  the  small  upper 
back  bedroom  whose  only  outlook,"  her  biographer  says,  "  was 
to  the  tall  dingy  walls  of  adjacent  houses ; "  was  it  from  here 
that, — looking  with  rapt  gaze  over  to  the  neighbouring  stables 
and  mews, —  she  saw,  in  fancy,  the  angel  choirs  of  which  she 
wrote  ? 

"  .  .   .   .   Multitudes — multitudes — stood  up  in  bliss, 

Made  equal  to  the  angels,  glorious,  fair  ; 

With  harps,  palms,  wedding-garments,  kiss  of  peace, 

And  crowned  and  haloed  hair." 

Indeed  it  is  not  unlikely  that  she  did  see  them,  for  the  true 
poet's  mind  sees  what  it  brings,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  meaner 
things.  There  is  a  pretty  story  told,  in  this  connection,  of 
William  Blake,  the  poor,  half-crazed  poet-painter  of  Fountain 
Court.  "What,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  questioned"  (of  me) 
"  when  the  sun  rises,  do  you  not  see  a  round  disc  of  fire  some- 
what like  a  guinea  ?  Oh  !  no,  no  !  I  see  an  innumerable 
company  of  the  heavenly  host,  crying  *  Holy,  holy,  holy,  is  the 
Lord  God  Almighty  ! '  I  question  not  my  corporeal  eye  any  more 
than  I  would  question  a  window  concerning  a  sight.  I  look 
through  it,  and  not  with  it."  And  thus  it  was  with  Miss 
Rossetti.  She,  the  patient,  noble,  suffering  woman, — suffering, 
latterly,  from  a  long  and  painful  illness, — lay,  day  after  day 
silent  and  uncomplaining,  in  that  dismal  little  London  house 
where  she  had  spent  nineteen  years  of  her  life, — her  soul  ever 
beating  its  prison-bars.  Near  by  in  the  neighbouring  Woburn 
Square,  is  Christ  Church,  where  Miss  Rossetti  during  her  life 
was  a  constant  attendant,  and  whose  incumbent,  the  Rev.  J.  J. 
Glendinning  Nash,  was  her  close  friend.  Here  her  impressive 


252  THE  ROSSETTI  FAMILY  CHAP. 

funeral  service  (where  her  own  poems  were  sung)  took  place 
on  January  2nd  1895.  The  whole  of  this  part  of  London  is 
bound  up  with  the  lives  of  the  talented  Rossetti  family. 
Christina,  her  mother,  and  aunts,  lived  at  No  30  Torrington 
Square — and  before  that  at  5  Endsleigh  Gardens  ;  W.  M. 
Rossetti,  the  younger  brother  and  literary  critic,  lived  near  by, 
close  to  Regent's  Park  ;  and  Dante  Rossetti,  the  chief  of  this 
family  of  poets,  was,  as  we  know,  a  thorough  Londoner, 
and  never  even  visited  Italy  at  all.  One  of  the  most  curious 
things  about  London  is  the  way  in  which,  despite  its  gloom,  it 
inspires  and  stimulates  the  poet's  thought,  "  moulding  the  secret 
gold."  Else  why  is  it  that  so  many  beautiful  things  are 
produced  there  ?  Even  Mr.  Austin  Dobson's  Muse,  he  com- 
plains, "pouts"  when  abroad,  though  <;  she  is  not  shy  on 
London  stones  !  "  The  many-hued  beauties  of  the  country  do 
not  affect  us  as  do  the  grey  London  stones  and  streets,  eloquent 
with  association  and  history. 

If  the  Rossetti  family  are  deeply  connected  with  Bloomsbury 
streets  and  squares, — William  Morris,  the  poet  of  The  Earthly 
Paradise,  the  Socialist,  designer,  prophet  of  the  House 
Beautiful,  is  hardly  less  so.  It  was  in  unromantic  Bloomsbury 
that  his  ideas  of  beauty  were  mainly  nourished ;  Oxford  Street, 
Upton,  and  Kelmscott  came  later.  Bloomsbury,  whose  drawing 
and  painting  schools  are  immortalised  in  Thackeray's  novels 
(vide  '  Gandish's,"  in  The  Newcomes^,  has  always  been  more  or 
less  a  focus  of  art  teaching.  Bohemian  in  old  days,  it  is 
mildly  Bohemian  still,  as  any  one  who  frequents  the  art-schools 
of  the  neighbourhood  will  testify.  When  Morris  first  left 
Oxford,  in  1856,  he  and  Burne- Jones  took  rooms  together  in 
Upper  Gordon  Street,  Bloomsbury,  as  being  a  convenient 
locality  for  the  study  of  art.  Here  they  fell  in  with  other 
kindred  spirits,  such  as  Holman  Hunt  and  Rossetti.  "  Topsy  " 
(Morris)  "and  I  lived  together,"  Burne  Jones  wrote  in  1856, 
"  in  the  quaintest  room  in  all  London,  hung  with  brasses  of  old 
knights  and  drawings  of  Albert  Uiirer."  In  the  following  year 


RED  LION  MARY 


253 


(1857)  they  removed  to  17  Red  Lion  Square,  a  house  already 
consecrated  to  the  early  pioneers  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brother- 
hood : 

"  It  was  a  first-floor  set  of  three  rooms  ;  the  large  room  in  front  looked 
north,  and  its  window  had  been  heightened  up  to  the  ceiling  to  adapt  it  for 
use  as  a  studio  :  behind  it  was  a  bedroom,  and  behind  that  another  small 
bedroom  or  powdering  closet.  Till  the  spring  of  1859  this  was  their  London 
residence  and  working  place,  and  it  is  round  Red  Lion  Square  that  much 
of  the  mythology  of  Morris's  earlier  life  clusters.  From  the  incidents 
which  occurred  or  were  invented  there,  a  sort  of  Book  of  the  Hundred 
Merry  Tales  gradually  was  formed,  of  which  Morris  was  the  central 
figure. "_( Life  of  IV.  Morris,  byj.  W.  Mackail.} 

"  A  great  many  of  these  stories  are  connected  with  the  maid 
of  the  house,  who  became  famous  under  the  name  of  *  Red 
Lion  Mary.'  She  was  very  plain,  but  a  person  of  great 
character  and  unfailing  good  humour.  .  .  .  One  of  the  tales 
told  of  her  shows  her  imperturbable  good  nature.  Rossetti 
one  day,  on  her  entering  the  room,  strode  up  to  her,  and  in 
deep  resonant  tones,  with  fearful  meaning  in  his  voice,  de- 
claimed the  lines : 

"  *  Shall  the  hide  of  a  fierce  lion 
Be  stretched  on  a  couch  of  wood 
For  a  daughter's  foot  to  lie  on, 
Stained  with  a  father's  blood  ? ' 

"  Whereupon  the  girl,  quite  unawed  by  the  horrible  pro- 
position, replied  with  baffling  complacency,  '  It  shall  if  you  like, 
sir'!" 

From  the  fact  of  the  Red  Lion  Square  rooms  being  un- 
furnished came  practically  the  beginnings  of  Morris's  work 
as  a  decorator  and  manufacturer.  He  set  to  work  to  provide 
it  with  "  intensely  mediaeval  furniture,"  designed  by  himself, 
and  painted  in  panels  afterwards  by  Rossetti  and  Burne-Jones. 
There  were  tables,  chairs,  and  a  large  settle;  "chairs,"  says 
Rossetti,  "  such  as  Barbarossa  might  have  sat  in."  It  is  pleasant 
to  think  of  Morris  and  Rossetti  walking  arm-in-arm  on 


254  WILLIAM  MORRIS  CHAP. 

summer  evenings,  wending  their  way  through  quaint  alleys  up  to 
the  Red  Lion  Square  lodgings,  deep  in  earnest  conversation  ; 
young,  intensely  busy  and  hopeful— still  more  intensely  full  of 
"  the  joy  of  life."  They  spent  their  holidays  at  the  not  far  distant 
Zoological  Gardens,  where  Morris,  who  was  fond  of  birds, 
would  observe  and  imitate  the  habits  of  eagles  : 

"  He  would  imitate  an  eagle  with  considerable  skill  and  humour, 
climbing  on  to  a  chair,  and,  after  a  sullen  pause,  coming  down  with  a  soft 
heavy  flop  ;  and  for  some  time  an  owl  was  one  of  the  tenants  of  Red  Lion 
Square,  in  spite  of  a  standing  feud  between  it  and  Rossetti." 

Morris  had  several  Bloomsbury  abodes.  Later,  when  he 
married,  and  the  Red  Lion  Square  household  broke  up,  he 
and  his  wife  went  into  lodgings  at  41,  Great  Ormond  Street; 
and  again,  some  five  or  six  years  later,  they  took  an  old  house, 
26  Queen  Square,  (now  pulled  down  to  make  room  for  a 
hospital),  a  house  which,  with  its  yard  and  outbuildings  behind, 
had  room  and  to  spare  for  his  family,  and  also  for  workshops 
to  accommodate  his  increasing  trade  as  a  decorative  manu- 
facturer. It  is  sad  that  London  houses  where  Morris  lived 
should  bear  no  trace  of  his  beautifying  hand ;  for  externally,  it 
must  be  confessed,  such  of  his  Bloomsbury  dwellings  as  re- 
main extant  are  commonplace.  Red  Lion  Square,  a  curiously 
antiquated  enclosure  near  Holborn,  approached  by  paved 
diverging  alleys  at  the  eastern  corners,  and  with  a  pathetic  look 
of  having  known  better  days  (it  is  now  mostly  offices  and 
business  flats),  contains  but  few  dwelling-houses.  No.  17  still 
stands,  but  the  only  thing  about  it  that  seems  to  suggest  the 
Morris  tradition  is  its  plain  green  door ;  and  it  differs  from 
its  neighbours  merely  by  its  middle  first-floor  window  being 
"  heightened  up  to  the  ceiling  "  as  already  described.  Neither 
is  41,  Great  Ormond  Street — one  of  the  smaller  houses  in  that 
dignified  old  street — in  any  way  remarkable,  except  for  its  rather 
dilapidated  look.  It  seems  a  pity,  by  the  way,  that  tablets  do 
not  more  frequently  indicate  the  houses  where  great  people 


xi  QUEEN  SQUARE  AND  ITS  HOSPITALS  255 

have  lived ;  the  dullest  of  London  streets  would  gain  infinitely 
in  interest  were  this  the  rule,  instead  of  merely  the  exception. 

Queen  Square,  though  its  old  houses  have  mostly  been 
rebuilt  as  large  hospitals,  and  only  a  few  of  them  remain, 
still  has  a  charming  old  world  look.  Great  Ormond  Street, 
with  its  tall  old  mansions  of  time-darkened  red  brick,  their 
quaint  overhanging  porch  roofs,  and  their  often  elaborate  iron- 
work, runs  into  it  at  one  end ;  while  the  other — curious  anomaly 
at  this  date  ! — is  still  a  deadlock  of  enclosed  gardens,  with  no 
thoroughfare  into  dull  Guilford  street  beyond.  This,  —  and  it 
is  a  fact  that  of  itself  speaks  well  for  the  health  of  the  district, 
— is  a  region  of  hospitals ;  hence  the  occasional  whiff  of  ether 
or  scent  of  iodine  from  bandaged  "  out-patients  "  that  greets 
the  traveller  by  omnibus  up  Southampton  Row.  The  high 
ground  on  which  Bloomsbury  is  built  (for  it  is  a  gradual 
ascent  all  the  way  from  the  river  to  Russell  Square)  render  it, 
its  fogs  and  soot  notwithstanding, — and  despite  the  old  tradition 
that  the  victims  of  the  plague  were  mainly  buried  here, — far 
more  bracing  then  the  more  fashionable  West  End.  It  has, 
certainly,  its  quota  of  fogs,  or  "  London  particulars  "  as  Sam 
Weller  called  them ;  but  so  have  other  parts  of  London.  In 
and  about  Great  Ormond  Street  and  Queen  Square  are  many 
hospitals  ;  large,  airy,  and  splendidly  managed  institutions,  such, 
for  instance,  as  the  well-known  Great  Ormond  Street  Hospital  for 
Sick  Children,  (abused  as  "  hideous  "  by  Mr.  Hare,  principally 
because  "two  interesting  houses,  Nos.  48  and  49,"  of  real 
Queen  Anne  architecture,  were  destroyed  in  1882  to  enlarge 
it) ;  the  National  Hospital  for  Epilepsy  and  Paralysis,  under 
the  great  Dr.  Ferrier ;  and  the  tall  newly-built  Alexandra 
Hospital  for  children.  In  Powis  Place,  close  to  Queen  Square, 
Lord  Macaulay  lived  in  early  manhood  with  his  family.  The 
house  is  now  joined  to  the  Homoeopathic  Hospital. 

In  Great  Ormond  Street,  also,  on  the  northern  side,  is  the 
"  Working  Men's  College,"  the  history  of  which  is  so  deeply 
associated  with  Ruskin,  Rossetti,  Madox  Brown,  and  their 


256  "THE  WORKING  MEN'S  COLLEGE"  CHAP. 

friends.  Started  first  by  F.  D.  Maurice  at  31,  Red  Lion 
Square,  (where  Rossetti  and  Ruskin  subsequently  volunteered 
to  hold  classes,  Rossetti  "  teaching  mechanics  to  draw  each 
other,"  and  Ruskin  instructing  them  in  the  more  rudimentary 
art  of  copying  leaves,  flowers,  &c.,  according  to  the  "strictest 
school  of  Ruskinianism  ;) — it  was  subsequently  moved  to  its 
present  site.  In  the  lives  of  this  gifted  community  of  artists 
and  teachers,  the  Working  Men's  College  played  no  small  part, 
and  showed  how  deeply  these  young  men  were  actuated,  not 
only  by  the  love  of  art,  but  also  by  the  feeling  of  universal 
brotherhood  advocated  later  by  Morris  in  the  social  Utopia  he 
propounded  in  one  of  his  best  known  works.  The  story  of  the 
College  may  be  read  in  many  books  and  biographies.  The 
kind  of  thing  it  practised,  being  rare  in  those  days,  attracted 
strangers  and  philanthropic  aristocrats,  who  came  to  look  on 
and  to  wonder.  Irreverent  stories,  indeed,  are  told  of  the 
classes  there  by  mild  scoffers, — such  as  W.  B.  Scott,  for  instance, 
— who  describes  Mr.  Ruskin's  class,  as  follows  : 

"We  drove  into  Red  Lion  Square,  and  here  I  found.  .  .  .  everyone 
trying  to  put  on  small  pieces  of  paper,  imitations  by  pen  and  ink  of  pieces 
of  rough  stick  crusted  with  dry  lichens  !....!  came  away  feeling  that 
such  pretence  of  education  was  in  a  high  degree  criminal — it  was  intellectual 
murder  ! " 

For  Mr.  Scott,  who  was,  as  he  says,  "  the  representative  of 
the  Government  schools,"  some  allowance  must  be  made ;  but 
Dante  Rossetti  himself,  though  he  held  a  "  life  "-class,  also 
saw  the  comic  side.  "  You  think,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Scott : 

"  You  think  I  have  turned  humanitarian,  perhaps,  but  you  should  see  my 
class  for  the  model  !  None  of  your  Freehand  Drawing- Books  used.  The 
British  mind  is  brought  to  bear  on  the  British  mng?&  once,  and  with  results 
that  would  astonish  you." 

On  the  actual  value  of  these  things,  opinions,  as  we  see,  may 
differ ;  but  who  can  doubt  the  indirect  good  that  resulted  from 
the  effort,  both  to  teachers  and  to  taught  ? 

The  Passmore  Edwards  Settlement,  in  Tavistock  Place,  goes 


xi  THE  PASSMORE  EDWARDS  SETTLEMENT  257 

perhaps,  far  to  realise  some  of  the  ideas  of  Morris's  Utopia. 
To  begin  with,  it  is  a  thing  of  beauty.  Its  newness  is  not 
aggressive,  and  its  long  red-brick  building,  adorned  by  quaint 
porches  and  backed  by  refreshing  green  plane-trees,  is  a 
pleasing  object  as  viewed  from  the  essentially  unromantic  and 
grimy  street  into  which  it  opens.  Its  architecture  is  a  credit 
to  the  two  young  men  who  designed  it.  Though  the  build- 
ing, I  believe,  at  first  excited  some  adverse  comment  in 
Bloomsbury  circles,  yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  its  success  as 
a  whole.  Its  style,  simple  yet  decorative,  gains  on  the  beholder. 
While,  externally,  it  forms  a  little  "  isle  of  quiet  breathing  " 
in  Bloomsbury  streets,  its  proportions  and  general  construction 
are.  internally,  no  less  charming.  The  big  lecture-hall  with  its 
white  arched  roof,  its  many  windows,  the  beautifully-propor- 
tioned drawing-room  with  its  lovely  colouring  of  green  and 
red,  the  well-stocked  library,  the  gymnasium,  the  sewing-rooms, 
the  cooking-school,  are  all  arranged  and  decorated  in  the 
Morris  style,  and  according  to  Morris's  ideas  ....  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward,  as  every  one  knows,  is  the  inspiring  spirit  of 
the  Settlement,  and  Mr.  Tatton  is  her  warden  and  prophet. 
The  present  building,  for  which  the  funds  were  principally 
provided  by  Mr.  Passmore  Edwards  of  the  Echo,  is  the 
outcome  of  Mrs.  Ward's  earlier  "  settlement "  in  Gordon  Square. 
It  was  built  in  1897  on  the  site  of  a  curious  old  house  called  "The 
Grove,"  which  stood  apart  in  its  own  grounds  ;  a  house  where 
Herschel  lived  and  where  he  first  weighed  the  world ;  where, 
also,  report  says,  that  George  IV  kept  one  of  his  numerous 
"ladies."  The  Settlement,  which  is  of  the  Toynbee  Hall  type, 
is  unsectarian,  and  therefore  looked  coldly  on  by  many  church- 
people  ;  though,  by  the  admitted  good  it  works,  it  has  overcome 
many  prejudices.  Among  the  most  novel,  and  assuredly  the 
most  excellent,  of  its  works  is  the  Cripples'  School  which  is 
conducted  within  its  walls.  It  is  a  pathetic  sight  to  see  the 
vehicle — half  omnibus  and  half  ambulance— carrying  these 
poor  little  pupils  to  and  from  the  Settlement.  Also,  it 

s 


258  CHARLES  DARWIN  CHAP. 

ministers  to  the  highest  pleasures  of  the  people;  and  it  is 
far  more  difficult  to  teach  enjoyment  than  to  teach  learning. 
Gymnasiums,  cooking,  and  social  gatherings  for  all  classes  alike 
pave,  at  any  rate,  the  way  to  still  larger  "  departures  "  and 
Ruskinian  possibilities  in  the  way  of  "  preaching  to  the  rich 
and  dining  with  the  poor."  The  pretty  drawing-room  of  the 
Settlement  looks,  with  its  bay  window,  on  to  a  charming 
green  garden  once  backed  by  Dickens's  old  house, — Tavistock 
House, — now  demolished. 

Literary  memories  attach  even  to  Gower  Street ;  that  long, 
prosaic,  interminable  thoroughfare. 

Here,  at  No.  no  (then  No.  12,  Upper  Gower  Street,  and 
now  utilized  with  neighbouring  houses  as  Shoolbred's  offices), 
lived,  in  1839,  Charles  Darwin;  it  was  described  by  his 
son  as  "  a  small,  commonplace  London  house,  with  a  dining 
room  in  front,  and  a  small  room  behind,  in  which  they  lived 
for  quietness."  Though  Darwin  sometimes  grumbled,  as 
men  will,  over  the  necessity  of  living  in  "  dirty  odious  London," 
he  also  appreciated  its  peculiar  charm,  as  the  following  extract 
will  testify : 

' '  We  are  living  a  life  of  extreme  quietness.  What  you  describe  as  so 
secluded  a  spot  is,  I  will  answer  for  it,  quite  dissipated  compared  with 
Gower  Street.  We  have  given  up  all  parties,  for  they  agree  with  neither 
of  us ;  and  if  one  is  quiet  in  London  there  is  nothing  like  it  for  quiet- 
ness. .  .  .  There  is  a  grandeur  about  its  smoky  fogs,  and  the  dull,  distant 
sounds  of  cabs  and  coaches ;  in  fact,  you  may  perceive  I  am  becoming  a 
thorough-paced  cockney,. and  I  glory  in  the  thought  that  I  shall  be  here  for 
the  next  six  months." 

In  1835,  too,  as  Mr.  Frith  recalls  in  his  amusing 
Reminiscences ',  he  himself  was  a  boy,  just  introduced  to  his 
first  drawing  academy,  immortalized  as  "  Gandish's  "  in  the 
Newcomes ;  that  of  Mr.  Henry  Sass,  which  still  stands,  a  corner 
house  at  No.  6  Charlotte  Street,  the  Holborn  continuation  of 
Gower  Street.  At  the  side  entrance,  under  the  classic  bust  of 
Minerva,— which,  yellowed  and  antique  in  more  senses  than  one, 


xr  "GANDISH'S"  259 

"  to  this  day  looks  down  on  the  passer-by;" — under  this  door- 
way came  not  only  Frith,  but  Millais,  and  other  well-known 
Academicians.  Edward  Lear,  of  much  Nonsense  Book  fame, 
and  much  undeserved  neglect  as  a  landscape-painter,  "a  man  of 
varied  and  great  accomplishments,"  was  also  one  of  Sass's  pupils. 
Millais,  when  a  boy  attending  Sass's  school,  lived  with  his 
parents  at  83,  Gower  Street  (the  studio  was  built  out  behind).  Mr. 
Plolman  Hunt  thus  describes  the  Millais  menage  at  the  time : 

"  It  (the  studio)  was  comfortably  furnished  with  artistic  objects  tastefully 

arranged The  son  put  his  hand  on  his  father's  shoulder  and  the 

other  on  his  mother's  chair,  and  said  :  '  They  both  help  me,  I  can  tell  you. 
He's  capital  !  and  does  a  lot  of  useful  things.  Look  what  a  good  head  he 
has.  I  have  painted  several  of  the  old  doctors  from  him.  By  making  a 
little  alteration  and  putting  a  beard  on  him  he  does  splendidly,  and  he  sits 
for  hands  and  draperies,  too  ;  and  as  for  mamma,  she  finds  me  all  I  want 
in  the  way  of  dresses,  and  makes  them  up  for  me.  She  reads  to  me,  too, 
at  times,  and  finds  out  whatever  I  want  to  know  at  the  British  Museum 
library.  She's  very  clever,  I  can  tell  you,'  and  he  stooped  down  and  rubbed 
his  curly  head  against  her  forehead,  and  then  patted  the  '  old  daddy,'  as  he 
called  him,  on  the  back." 

It  was  close  to  Sass's  old  school,  and  opposite  his  benign 
Minerva,  that  I  once  saw,  myself,  one  bitter  May-Day  of  nipping 
"north-easter,"  the  real  old  "  Jack-in-the-Green  "  described  by 
Dickens  and  illustrated  by  Cruickshank  ;  the  'f  May-Day  sweeps" 
of  the  Sketches  by  Boz\  "my  lord,"  "my  lady,"  "clowns," 
"green,"  and  all.  Very  wretched  and  miserable  looked  these 
belated  illustrators  of  an  ancient  custom,  as  they  danced  and 
piped  through  the  wind  and  sleet  that  usually,  by  some  strange 
perversity,  usher  in  the  first  of  May.  The  Cockney  children 
who  storm  the  doorsteps,  clamorously  demanding  May-Day 
tribute,  and  crying  their  shrilly  monotonous  song : 

"  Fust  er  Ma — ay, 
Dawn  er  da — ay, 
It's  only  once  a  yee — ar  "- 

are  usually  suggestive  of  a  cold,  cheerless  morn. 

At  the  present  day,  many  members   of  the  legal  profession 

S    2 


26o  THE  IRVINGITE  CHURCH  CHAP. 

still  inhabit  Bloomsbury,  recalling  the  old  days  when,  from  its 
residents,  it  was  dubbed  "Judge-Land."  Its  proximity  to 
Fleet  Street  renders  it  equally  beloved  by  writers ;  its  nearness 
to  the  Strand  endears  it  to  "  the  profession  "  and  the  music- 
hall  artistes,  who  frequent  the  flats  near  Tottenham  Court  Road  ; 
but  the  bulk  of  the  residential  population  is  Jewish.  Blooms- 
bury  has,  however,  not  only  been  the  chosen  abode  of  judges, 
journalists,  and  Jews,  but  it  is  also  the  home  of  many  sects  and 
religious  communities,  some  important,  and  some,  if  report  be 
true,  mustering  but  few  adherents.  There  is  a  by-way  off  Lamb's 
Conduit  Street  (which  is  a  thoroughfare  at  the  back  of  Great  Or- 
mond  Street,  containing,  like  it,  some  quaint  old  houses,  as  well 
as  some  interesting  curiosity-shops) ;  in  this  by-way  is  a  tiny 
building,  pathetic  in  its  minuteness,  and  chiefly  discernible  from 
its  projecting  gas-lamp,  labelled  "  Church  of  Humanity."  Of  this 
church,  a  wit  is  said  to  have  unkindly  remarked,  with  reference 
to  the  size  of  its  congregation,  that  it  contained  "  three  persons, 
but  no  God."  Unitarians  muster  largely  round  the  Blooms- 
bury  squares  ;  and  the  Irvingites,  or,  as  they  call  themselves, 
members  of  "  the  Catholic  and  Apostolic  Church,"  have  their 
principal  place  of  worship, — a  fine  building  erected  for  them  in 
1853, — in  Gordon  Square.  Its  door  is — rare  indeed  in  London  ! 
— always  open,  enabling  the  visitor  to  enter  and  admire  the  long 
cloister  that  leads  to  the  church,  and  the  decorated  interior 
with  its  triforium,  wheel-window,  and  side-chapel.  The  prayer- 
books  lying  in  the  pews  seem  much  the  same  as  those  used  by 
the  English  Church,  the  chief  difference  being  that  in  them  the 
word  "saint"  is  always  rendered  as  "angel."  This  beautiful 
church  and  its  strange  creed  result  from  the  doctrines  pro- 
pounded by  Edward  Irving,  the  Annandale  prophet  and  seer, 
the  preacher  of  "the  gift  of  tongues,"  who  was  himself 
ordained  the  first  "  angel "  or  minister  of  his  sect.  (This 
Edward  Irving  was  the  first  lover  of  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle, — the 
man  of  whom  she  said,  that  if  she  had  married  him,  "  there 
would  have  been  no  gift  of  tongues  !  ") 


Xi  CARLYLE  AND  DICKENS  261 

Whitefield's  Tabernacle,  that  early  home  of  Dissent, — where, 
in  1824,  Edward  Irving  delivered  his  famous  missionary  oration 
of  three-and-a-half  hours, — stands  near  by  in  Tottenham  Court 
Road.  Erected  first  by  the  preacher  George  Whitefield  in  1756, 
and  called  then  "  Whitefield's  Soul  Trap," — it  has  been  many 
times  rebuilt, — and  is  now  just  re-opened  as  an  imposing  red- 
brick and  ornate  edifice,  on  its  original  site.  Notwithstand- 
ing its  deplorable  newness,  it  perpetuates  the  memory  of 
Whitefield,  Toplady,  and  John  Wesley ;  and  it  was  here,  by  a 
curious  coincidence,  that  two  ministers  preached  their  own 
funeral  sermons  ! 

With  Carlyle  too,  although  his  chosen  home  was  in  far- 
away Chelsea,  Bloomsbury  has  associations.  At  No.  6 
Woburn  Buildings, — in  a  dingy  little  paved  by-way  close  to 
New  St.  Pancras  Church,  Euston  Road, — Carlyle  lodged  for 
a  short  time  in  1831— when  trying  to  get  his  Sartor 
Resartus  taken  by  a  publisher.  In  these  lodgings  ("a  very 
beautiful  sitting  room,  quiet  and  airy  "  he  describes  it),  Edward 
Irving,  his  friend,  had  also  stayed.  And  5  Ampton  Street, 
Mecklenburgh  Square,  was  another  London  lodging  of 
Carlyle's — frequented  before  the  Chelsea  days  began  in  1834. 
But,  of  the  many  literary  men  who  have  lived  in  and  around 
Bloomsbury,  none  is  more  associated  with  the  locality  than 
Charles  Dickens.  Tavistock  House  has  been  recently  pulled 
down ;  it  was  an  unassuming,  ugly,  semi  detached  dwelling 
with  a  heavy  portico,  one  of  three  houses  all  now  destroyed, 
railed  off  from  the  eastern  side  of  Tavistock  Square,  and 
entered  from  it  through  an  iron  gateway.  This  was  the 
novelist's  home  for  ten  years,  from  1850  to  1860.  He,  and 
his  famous  New  Year's  theatricals,  are  still  a  recollection  of  the 
older  residents  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  annual  plays  of 
Tavistock  House,  performed  "  in  a  theatre  erected  in  the 
garden,"  and  written  and  stage-managed  under  the  colla- 
boration of  Wilkie  Collins  and  Charles  Dickens,  are  now 
matter  of  history.  Bleak  House  was  the  earliest  work  written 


262  RUSKIN'S  BIRTHPLACE  CHAP. 

here.  The  house  after  Dickens's  time  became  a  Jews'  college, 
and  the  pupils  "  recreated  "  in  the  novelist's  theatre-garden.  It 
is  now  a  sad  scene  of  desolation.  Memories  of  Bloomsbury 
haunt  many  of  Dickens's  works,  but  none  are  better  or  more 
lifelike  in  their  way  than  his  early  sketches  of  the  immortal 
Mrs.  Tibbs — type  of  her  class — and  her  select  boarding  house 
in  Great  Coram  Street,  in  "  that  partially  explored  tract  of 
country  which  lies  between  the  British  Museum  and  a  remote 
village  called  Somers  Town."  Mrs.  Tibbs's  advertisement  to 
the  effect  that  "  six  individuals  would  meet  with  all  the  comforts 
of  a  cheerful  musical  home  in  a  select  private  family,  residing 
within  ten  minutes'  walk  of  everywhere,"  is  still  not  uncom- 
monly met  with. 

But  the  literary  memories  of  Bloomsbury  are  like  the 
sands  of  the  sea  for  multitude.  They  may  be  found  even  in 
the  dingy  streets  running  east  of  Tavistock  Square,  leading 
north  towards  the  tram-lines  and  general  squalor  of  King's 
Cross.  At  No.  26  Marchmont  Street,  the  youthful  Shelley 
and  the  still  more  youthful  Mary  Godwin,  afterwards  Shelley's 
second  wife,  lived  in  1815,  before  Harriet's  death  and  their 
own  legal  marriage ;  and  here  their  first  baby  was  born  and 
died.  "  Shelley  and  Clara  go  out  about  a  cradle,"  Mary's  diary 
records,  a  few  days  after  the  infant's  birth.  Here  Mary  read 
Corinne  and  Rinaldini,  and  mourned  over  her  little  dead  child, 
"  a  span-long  dead  baby,  and  in  the  lodgings  in  Marchmont 
Street  an  empty  cradle."  Possibly  Marchmont  Street  then 
was  not  quite  so  slummy  as  it  is  now ;  but  this  young  couple, 
treading  "the  bright  Castalian  brink  and  Latmos'  steep," 
were  probably  just  as  unconscious  of  London  mud  as  of 
any  disorder,  actual  or  moral,  in  their  establishment. 

At  54,  Hunter  Street,  a  street  just  east  of  Marchmont 
Street,  and  now  exhibiting,  in  all  its  phases,  the  gradual  decay 
described  by  Dickens,  John  Ruskin  was  born  in  1819;  and 
here,  as  he  describes  in  Prceterita,  he  used,  at  the  age  of  four, 
to  enjoy  from  his  nursery  window  "  the  view  of  a  marvellous 


xi  BOARDING-HOUSES  263 

iron  post,  out  of  which  the  water-carts  were  filled  through  beauti- 
ful little  trap-doors,  by  pipes  like  boa  constrictors,"  a  mystery 
which,  he  says,  he  was  never  weary  of  contemplating.  If  any 
such  little  observant  boy  should  happen  to  live  there  now,  he 
would  have  something  further  to  contemplate,  to  wit,  the  frequent 
green  omnibuses,  for  this  is  now  the  much- travelled  omnibus 
route  between  the  stations  of  King's  Cross  and  Victoria. 
Hunter  Street  runs  into  Brunswick  Square,  where,  at  No.  32, 
the  Punch  artist  John  Leech  lived  for  ten  years,  and  suffered 
many  afflictions  at  the  hands  of  persistent  organ-grinders,  who, 
if  they  did  not  really  shorten  his  life,  at  any  rate  aggravated 
the  illness  of  which  he  died.  London  is  conservative  in  its 
habits,  and  organ-grinders,  trooping  in  from  their  neighbouring 
home  of  Hatton  Garden — even  occasionally  a  low  type  of 
nigger  minstrels — still  haunt  this  spot,  as  they  do  all  places,  for 
that  matter,  where  boarding-houses  congregate.  The  regular 
attendance  of  what  is  termed  a  "  piano-organ  "  always  denotes  a 
boarding-house;  the  louder  its  screech  the  better,  for  the  boarder 
seems  fond  of  noise.  His  mode  of  life  is  peculiar  and  unique. 
He  will  sit  on  the  balcony  smoking,  or  eat  his  dinner  with 
his  friends  almost  in  public ;  it  is  all  the  same  to  him.  Such 
sign-manuals  betray  the  l< select  boarding  establishment"  al- 
most as  much  as  does  the  row  of  five  ornate  cracked  glazed  pots, 
yellow  and  blue  alternately,  that  adorn  its  lower  windows  ;  or 
to  quote  Dickens  :  "  the  meat-safe  looking  blinds  in  the  parlour 
windows,  blue  and  gold  curtains  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
spring  roller  blinds  all  the  way  up."  Adjoining  Brunswick 
Square  on  the  west  is  Great  Coram  Street,  where  (at  No.  13), 
Thackeray  lived  when  first  married,  and  wrote  his  Paris  Sketch 
Book.  This  district  has  been  altered  lately  by  tall  ugly  workmen's 
flats ;  but  Great  and  Little  Coram  Street  still  perpetuate  the 
memory  of  old  Captain  Thomas  Coram,  the  benevolent  sea 
captain,  and  originator  of  the  well-known  Foundling  Hospital 
close  by  in  Guilford  Street.  This  picturesque  and  important 
institution  is  a  kind  of  show  place  on  Sundays,  to  which  many 


264  THE  FOUNDLING  HOSPITAL  CHAP. 

visitors  are  taken.  The  chapel  services,  with  the  raised  tiers 
of  boys  and  girls  singing  in  trained  choir  on  each  side  of  the 
big  organ  presented  by  Handel,  not  only  please  alike  the  eye 
and  ear,  but  have  the  indescribable  charm  of  pathos.  As  Mrs. 
Meagles  in  Dickens's  novel  (Little  Dorrit)  well  expresses  it : 

"Oh  dear,  dear"  (she  sobbed),  "when  I  saw  all  those  children  ranged 
tier  above  tier,  and  appealing  from  the  father  none  of  them  has  ever  known 
on  earth,  to  the  great  Father  of  us  all  in  Heaven,  I  thought,  does  any 
wretched  mother  ever  come  here,  and  look  among  those  young  faces,  wonder- 
ing which  is  the  poor  child  she  brought  into  this  forlorn  world,  never  through 
its  life  to  know  her  love,  her  kiss,  her  face,  her  voice,  even  her  name  ! " 

Blake's  poem  pictures  the  scene  : 

"  Oh,  what  a  multitude  they  seemed,  these  flowers  of  London  town  ! 
Seated  in  companies  they  sit,  with  radiance  all  their  own  ; 
The  hum  of  multitudes  was  there,  but  multitudes  of  lambs, 
Hundreds  of  little  boys  and  girls  raising  their  innocent  hands." 

In  the  early  days  of  the  hospital,  first  established  in  Hatton 
Garden  in  1740,  the  admission  of  unwanted  children  was  more 
or  less  indiscriminate,  and  the  mortality  among  them — packed 
for  transit  from  the  country  in  some  cases  "  five  infants  in  a 
basket  " — enormous.  Now  it  is  only  a  "  foundling  "  hospital  in 
that  it  receives  illegitimate  children,  who  must  not  be  more 
than  a  year  old,  and  whose  mothers  must  personally  apply  and 
state  their  case.  The  "  tokens  "  left  with  the  babies  in  the 
early  days  of  the  institution  as  means  of  future  identification,  are 
preserved  in  the  hospital.  Some  of  them  are  very  curious  : 

"Coins  of  an  ancient  date.  ...  a  playing  card — the  ace  of  hearts — 
with  a  dolorous  piece  of  verse  written  upon  it ;  a  ring  with  two  hearts 
in  garnets,  broken  in  half,  and  then  tied  together ;  three  or  four  padlocks, 
intended,  we  suppose,  as  emblems  of  security  ;  a  nut,  an  ivory  fish,  an 
anchor,  a  gold  locket,  a'  lottery  ticket.  Sometimes  a  piece  of  brass,  either 
in  the  shape  of  a  heart  or  a  crescent  moon,  was  used  as  a  distinguishing 
mark,  generally  engraved  with  some  little  verse  or  legend.  Thus  one  has 
these  words  upon  it,  'In  amore  hrec  sunt  vitia';  another  has  this  bit  of 
doggerel  :— 

"  You  have  my  heart ; 
Though  we  must  part." 


xi  PICTURESQUE  BLOOMSBURY  265 

By  admission,  after  the  service,  to  the  long  dining-hall,  the 
visitors  are  allowed  to  see  the  children's  temporal,  as  well  as 
their  spiritual,  wants  well  attended  to.  Hogarth's  March  to 
Finchley,  a  picture  which  he  practically  presented  to  the 
hospital,  hangs  in  its  picture  gallery,  and  testifies  to  the  painter's 
interest  in  the  institution.  The  hospital's  playing-grounds  look 
into  Lamb's  Conduit  Street,  where  often  through  the  railings 
passers-by  stand  and  gaze  at  the  children  in  their  quaint 
uniform,  the  boys  in  red  and  brown,  playing  on  one  side  of  the 
gravelled  enclosure  ;  the  girls,  in  brown  frocks  with  white  caps, 
tuckers,  and  aprons,  on  the  other.  In  Mecklenburgh  Square, 
which  adjoins  the  hospital  on  the  east, — the  most  curiously 
secluded  square,  surely,  in  all  London, — lived  George  Augustus 
Sala,  the  well-known  journalist,  whose  house  was  a  perfect 
museum  of  curiosities  and  works  of  art.  "  Highly  respectable 
but  not  at  all  fashionable,"  is  the  cruel  sentence  pronounced 
both  upon  this  square  and  its  neighbour  Brunswick  Square. 
The  broken-nosed  statue  of  the  girl  with  a  pitcher,  that  stands 
opposite  the  big  iron  gates  of  the  Foundling  Hospital  (at  the 
opening  of  Lamb's  Conduit  Street),  shows  how  much  less 
reverently  inclined  the  youth  of  London  are  to  art,  than  the 
Florentine. 

This,  on  a  day  of  atmospheric  charm,  a  day  haloed  by  blue 
depths  of  mist,  is,  to  the  chastened  eye  of  the  constant 
Londoner,  one  of  Bloomsbury's  prettiest  spots.  But  others 
there  are  as  charming ;  for  instance,  the  view  from  Tavistock 
Square,  of  the  tower  of  New  St.  Pancras  Church,  that  tower 
imitated  from  the  Athenian  "Tower  of  the  Winds,"  white 
against  a  blue  sky ;  or,  more  mysterious,  the  great  towers  of  St. 
Pancras  Station,  as  they  loom  up  blackly,  like  some  mediaeval 
fortress,  against  a  lurid  twilight. 

Lamb's  Conduit  Street  has  many  interesting  curio-shops  : 
Hindoo  idols,  yellow  dragons,  and  the  like,  glare  in  quite 
human  fashion  at  the  passer-by  from  behind  the  grimy  shop 
panes ;  and  books  and  curios,  combined,  form  the  main 


266  SECOND-HAND  BOOK  SHOPS  CHAP: 

stock-in-trade  of  the  four  quaint  diverging  alleys  of  the  neigh- 
bouring Red  Lion  Square,  already  mentioned.  It  is  a  great 
mistake,  however,  to  imagine  that  because  a  shop  is  dirty  and 
tumble-down,  its  wares  will  necessarily  be  cheap.  Though 
Bloomsbury  shops  may  be  slightly  cheaper  than  those  of  Soho 
and  Wardour  Street,  yet  here,  too,  the  engaging  and  generally 
picturesque  old  dealer  has,  in  the  case  of  old  china,  a  keen  eye 
to  business  ;  and  as  regards  old  books,  that  apparent  disinclina- 
tion to  sell  which  is  so  general  among  second-hand  book- 
sellers, as  to  suggest  that  it  is  not  without  its  magnetic  charm 
for  the  buyer.  Some  old  gentlemen  seem,  indeed,  to  utilize  most 
of  the  available  light  of  a  London  winter's  day  at  the  outside 
counters  of  these  dusty  second-hand  book  emporiums.  So 
long  do  they  browse,  shivering  and  blue-nosed,  in  ragged  "  com- 
forters "  and  very  inadequate  great-coats,  that  one  is  tempted 
to  believe  the  story  of  the  old  scholar  who  read  the  whole  of  a 
long-sought  classic  in  a  winter's  stolen  hours  at  the  counter. 
Seldom,  in  these  days,  do  the  "  twopenny  "  or  "  fourpenny  " 
boxes,  that  used  to  yield  such  prizes,  now  repay  the  book-hunter. 
Old  school  books,  old  guide  books,  and  old  sermons,  "  the 
snows  of  yester-year,"  now  mainly  fill  them.  And,  indeed, 
with  such  a  mine  of  fiction  as  Mudie's  close  by,  where  kind 
gentlemen  recommend  appropriate  reading  to  timorous  old 
ladies,  or,  better  still,  with  such  privileges  as  may  be  obtained 
in  the  neighbouring  Reading  Room  of  the  British  Museum, 
practically  "  for  the  mere  asking,"  it  is  a  strange  taste  to  prefer 
to  stand  and  shiver  at  a  dingy  book-counter.  Once  inside  the 
sacred  portals  of  the  Reading  Room  (the  stranger  having  satis- 
fied the  Cerberus  at  the  wicket  gate  that  he  or  she  is  "over 
twenty-one,"  a  point  on  which  there  is  not  generally,  as  regards 
the  Reading  Room  clientele,  much  doubt),  a  warm  atmosphere, 
a  comfortable  seat,  and  a  luxurious  leather  desk  await 
the  jaded  wayfarer ;  with,  further,  polite  attendants  in  the 
innermost  circle  to  assist,  if  necessary,  his  researches ;  and, 
should  he  be  hungry,  a  further  possibility  of  a  cheap  lunch 


XI 


AT  THE  LIBRARY 


267 


of   sausage   and    mashed   potato   flanked    by  zoological   and 
geological    buns    in    the    refreshment    room,    a    locality    now 


Mudies. 

somewhat   unkindly  sandwiched   between  Greek  heroes   and 
Egyptian  gods. 


268  MUSEUM  HABITUES  CHAP. 

But  such  mundane  things  as  sausages  are,  primarily,  far  from 
the  thoughts  of  the  devotee  of  learning.  Entering  first  the  vast 
Dome  of  Knowledge, — where,  as  in  St.  Paul's,  the  blue  mist  and 
fog  of  London  seem  to  hang,  and  where,  underfoot,  floor-cloth 
deadens  all  sound, — a  certain  solemnity  impresses  the  visitor,  a 
sense,  almost,  of  being  in  another  world.  As,  indeed,  in  some 
respects  he  is  ;  for  the  denizens  of  the  British  Museum  Read- 
ing Room  are,  mainly,  a  race  apart  and  to  themselves.  They 
and  their  ways,  "their  tricks  and  their  manners,"  form  an 
interesting  study.  Day  after  day,  each  one  has  his— or  her — 
special  place  in  the  long  diverging  galleries  that,  like  spokes 
of  a  wheel,  emerge  from  the  central  sun  of  wisdom  and  electric 
light  under  the  dome.  Nobody,  it  is  true,  may  reserve  seats  ; 
yet  often  custom,  seconded  by  public  feeling  (and  that  conser- 
vatism which  is  the  birthright  of  every  Londoner),  reserves 
them  none  the  less.  The  girls  and  women  are  largely  of  the 
art-serged,  fuzzy-headed  type,  occasionally  also  dowdy  and 
sallow,  with  that  dust-ingrained  complexion  so  peculiar  to 
Bloomsbury ;  the  men  are  generally,  if  young,  badly  tailored 
and  long-haired,  and,  if  old,  irascible,  snuffy  and  unwashed. 

Was  it  perchance  of  any  of  these  that  Thomas  Carlyle  was 
thinking  when  he  wrote  the  following  characteristic  diatribe  ? — 

"There  are  several  persons  in  a  state  of  imbecility  who  come  to  read  in 
the  British  Museum.  I  have  been  informed  that  there  are  several  in  that 
state  who  are  sent  there  by  their  friends  to  pass  away  their  time.  I 
remember  there  was  one  gentleman  who  used  lo  blow  his  nose  very  loudly 
every  half-hour.  I  inquired  who  he  was,  and  I  was  informed  that  he  was  a 
mad  person  sent  there  by  his  friends ;  he  made  extracts  out  of  books,  and 
puddled  away  his  time  there." 

Woe  betide  the  novice  whose  evil  star  leads  him  to  one  of 
these  gentlemen's  special  haunts  !  Of  course  there  are  a  few 
smart  visitors  and  a  modicum  of  mere  "  fribblers  "  (some  years 
ago,  indeed,  so  many  damsels  repaired  to  the  reading-room  to 
skim  recent  novels,  that  a  rule  was  passed  forbidding  the  issue 
of  any  recent  work  of  fiction),  but  the  dowdy,  plodding  type 


xi  OLD  MONTAGUE  HOUSE  269 

forms  the  vast  majority.  In  many  cases  the  toilers  are  simply 
slaves  sent  by  some  absentee  literary  taskmaster  to  ferret  out 
knotty  points,  or  to  look  up  references.  Sometimes  they  are 
clergymen  in  search  of  detail  for  sermons  ;  sometimes  they  are 
learned  Casaubons  or  untiring  Jellybys  working  on  their  own 
account.  ...  A  kind  Government  provides  pens,  ink,  often 
tracing  paper,  and  any  amount  of  civility  and  trouble,  free. 
It  has  been  said  unkindly  by  West-Enders,  jealous  of  such 
liberality,  that  Bloomsbury  alone  should  be  taxed  for  the  British 
Museum  ;  such  an  injustice,  however,  has  not,  so  far,  been 
perpetrated  !  — 

That  the  British  Museum  is  gradually  absorbing  all  the 
houses  near  it,  and  enlarging  its  boundaries  into  a  large  square, 
is  evident.  The  whole  eastern  side  of  Bedford  Square,  and 
part  of  the  western  side  of  Russell  Square,  will  soon  be  amal- 
gamated into  the  vast  building.  The  little  lions,  those  orna- 
ments on  the  old  outer  railings,  about  whose  disappearance 
such  an  outcry  was  raised  some  years  back,  have  been  adapted 
to  the  internal  use  of  the  Museum,  and  higher,  stronger,  more 
important  railings  substituted  on  the  outside  in  their  place. 
The  large  pediment  of  the  portico,  imitated — at  how  long  an 
interval ! — from  the  Greek  model,  is,  like  the  statues  in  the 
squares,  filled  with  nesting  birds,  and  is  generally  also  white 
with  the  pigeons'  plumage.  And,  where  this  enormous  building 
now  stands,  was  originally  Old  Montague  House,  the  "  stately 
and  ample  ancient  palace,"  adorned  by  Verrio  and  built  in  the 
"  French  pavilion "  way,  when,  practically,  all  the  rest  of 
Bloomsbury  was  open  country.  Where  the  big  galleries  now 
extend  were  corridors  adorned  by  fresco  paintings ;  and  where 
the  halls  now  given  up  to  statues  and  treasures  stand,  were 
rooms  full  of  light,  music,  and  dancing. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  the  present.  Yet,  in  the  early 
winter  twilight  of  the  British  Museum  galleries,  it  is  easy  for 
vagrant  fancies,  unbidden,  to  arise.  The  vast  dim  galleries 
raise,  indeed,  ghosts  and  visions  of  a  brilliant  past,  and  confer 


270  MUSEUM  FANCIES  CHAP. 

almost  humanity  on  their  marble  tenants,  gigantic  figures 
shining  through  the  gloom.  The  Greek  gods  of  the  heroic  age, 
— the  creatures  "moulded  in  colossal  calm," — we  can  almost 
imagine  the  minds  who  inspired,  the  workmen  who  wrought, 
the  sculptors  who  fashioned,  the  temples  that  contained  them. 
The  stream  of  life  still  flows  around  the  feet  of  these  immortal 
ones,  who  in  their  calm  smiling  seem  to  scorn  the  poor 
passions  of  humanity ;  in  their  immortality,  to  rise  above  the 
feeble  ebb  and  flow  of  human  life.  As  Aurora  they  remain 
ever  youthful,  while  we  poor  mortals,  like  Tithonus,  adore  their 
eternal  youth  and  beauty,  and  ourselves  grow  old.  Here,  in 
the  dim  vestibule,  is  just  such  a  Grecian  Urn  as  that  which 
Keats  apostrophized,  with  its  lovers  whose  undying  youth  and 
unsatisfied  longing  he  enyied~7.  .  "Ars  longa,  vita  brevis," 
indeed  !  We  go,  but  tfee^shall  endure, — to  see  "  new  men,  new 
faces,  other  minds'" ;  to  have,  perchance,  new  labels  written  for 
them  byjuture  Dryasdusts  ;  to  be  invested  with  fresh  attributes 
.by_a-"Tiewer  school  of  ambitious  critics.  Many  of  them  have 
seen  cities  rise  and  fall ;  they  have  survived  ruin,  siege,  burial, 
neglect ;  and  now  at  last  they  have  come  here  to  the  same  dead 
level  of  monotony : 

"  Deemed  they  of  this,  those  worshippers, 

When,  in  some  mythic  chain  of  verse 

Which  man  shall  not  again  rehearse, 

The  faces  of  thy  ministers 

Yearned  pale  with  bitter  ecstasy  ? 
"  Greece,  Egypt,  Rome — did  any  god, 

Before  whose  feet  men  knelt  unshod, 

Deem  that  in  this  unblest  abode 

Another  scarce  more  unknown  god 
Should  house  with  him  " — 

If  these  dead  stones  could  feel,  would  they  not  lament  their 
departed  glory  ?  The  heroic  figure  of  Mausolus,  who,  on  the 
pinnacle  of  his  temple,  once  drove  his  marble  car,  the  cynosure 
of  all  eyes  and  the  wonder  of  the  world,  outlined  against  the 


xi  VISIONS  OF  THE  PAST  271 

blue  Aegean  sky  and  sea,  and  the  white-walled  city;  the 
gigantic  bas-reliefs  of  the  Parthenon,  whose  very  existence  here 
is  the  "  shibboleth "  of  aesthetic  criticism,  that  once  adorned 
the  ancient  Athenian  temple,  brilliantly  violet  and  golden 
against  the  faint  blue  line  of  the  bay  and  hills  of  Salamis ;  the 
famous  "Harpy  Tomb,"  torn  from  its  sunny  Lycian  height, 
and  now  glimmering  dimly  through  London  fog,  guarded  by 
a  vigilant  policeman, — what  former  beauties  of  surrounding 
nature  do  they  not  suggest  or  recall !  We  forget,  in  gazing, 
the  nineteenth-century  prose  of  Bloomsbury,  the  monotony 
of  its  gloomy  streets ;  we  forget  that  we  ourselves  are  "  the 
latest  seed  of  time,"  the  "last  word  "  of  the  human  race,  dwell- 
ing, amid  all  the  dull  luxury  of  civilisation,  in  the  greatest  and 
richest  city  of  the  world.  And,  leaving  the  gallery  by  way  of 
the  vast  and  unique  Assyrian  collection  of  sculptures,  passing 
through  the  two  colossal  human-headed  bulls  that  guard  its 
entrance,  creatures  whose  excavation  from  the  buried  city  of 
Nineveh  forms  one  of  the  most  romantic  of  modern  dis- 
coveries ;  passing  out  into  the  misty  sunshine  and  the  flying 
doves  before  the  pediment,  we  recall  again  Rossetti's  wonderful 
lines,  with  their  final  suggestion  of  a  future  lost  and  re- 
discovered London — rediscovered  under  the  dust  and  oblivion 
of  future  ages  : 

"  And  as  I  turned,  my  sense  half  shut 
Still  saw  the  crowds  of  kerb  and  rut 
Go  past  as  marshalled  to  the  strut 
Of  ranks  in  gypsum  quaintly  cut. 

It  seemed  in  one  same  pageantry 
They  followed  forms  which  had  been  erst ; 
To  pass,  till  on  my  sight  should  burst 
That  future  of  the  best  or  worst 
When  some  may  question  which  was  first, 

Of  London  or  of  Nineveh. 

"  For  as  that  Bull-god  once  did  stand 
And  watched  the  burial  clouds  of  sand, 
Till  these  at  last  without  a  hand 


272  LONDON  OR  NINEVEH?  CH.  xi 

Rose  o'er  his  eyes,  another  land, 

And  blinded  him  with  destiny  : — 

So  may  he  stand  again  ;  till  now, 

In  ships  of  unknown  sail  and  prow, 

Some  tribe  of  the  Australian  plough 

Bear  him  afar — a  relic  now 

Of  London,  not  of  Nineveh  ! " 


CHAPTER  XII 

THEATRICAL   AND    FOREIGN    LONDON 

— "All  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players.   .   .  ." — Shakespeare. 

"  O  gleaming  lamps  of  London,  that  gem  the  City's  crown, 
What  fortunes  lie  within  you,  O  lights  of  London  Town  !  "- 

G.  A'.  Sims,  Ballads  of  Babylon. 

As  I  was  travelling,  one  day  in  winter,  by  the  familiar  and 
homely  'bus  whose  "  hue  is  green  and  gold  "  ;  not  however, 
the  "  St.  John's  Wood "  'bus,  but  that  humbler  and  more 
business-like  one  which  runs  between  Victoria  and  King's  Cross, 
I  observed,  as  we  ascended  Long  Acre,  a  young  woman  get  in 
at  Bow  Street,  followed  by  a  "  lady  friend  "  at  Drury  Lane. 
They  were  hot,  untidy,  and,  as  to  their  attire,  muddy,  be-bugled, 
and  be-plushed  ;  also,  one  of  them  carried  a  large  and  equally 
be-bugled  baby.  After  their  first  salutations,  they  panted  for 
a  few  minutes,  out  of  breath ;  then  : — 

"  I've  got  it,  duckie,"  cried  the  Bow  Street  charmer,  a  young 
woman  with  a  big  black  fringe,  and  the  owner  of  the  overdressed 
and  pasty-faced  baby. 

"  What  have  you  got,  dearie  ?  "  inquired  her  friend,  who 
wore  a  dirty  blouse  that  had  once  been  yellow,  under  a  heavy 
plush  fur-trirnmed  cape  (the  month  was  November).  The  'bus 
sat  expectant. 

"  'E's  made  me  a  thief !  "  (The  'bus,  to  a  man,  or  rather, 
woman,  started.)  "  I  told  'im  as  I'd  give  'im  no  peace  till  'e 

T 


274  THE  "PROFESSION"  CHAP. 

did  ;  I  was  bound  to  go  back  an'  back,  till  'e  give  me  somethin'. 
An'  now,  sweetie,  I'm  one  er  the  forty  thieves,  at  a  quid  a 
week,  and  find  nothin'.  Ain't  that  somethin'  ?  " 

A  light  broke  in  upon  the  wondering  'bus,  and  all  the 
auditors  peacefully  resumed  their  papers  or  their  reflections. 
Of  course,  it  was  the  Drury  Lane  pantomime  !  It  was  stupid 
of  us  not  to  have  guessed  it  before,  for  the  "  dearie,"  "  duckie  " 
and  "  sweetie  "  ought  to  have  suggested  it  at  once  !  Also,  the 
dresses  of  the  two  interlocutors,  which,  now  that  I  looked  at  them 
again,  seemed  to  have  on  the  beholder  that  peculiar  effect  of 
combined  smartness  and  disorder  that,  for  some  reason  or 
the  other,  distinguishes  the  "  pro ; "  the  "  pro," — that  is, — of 
the  lower  ranks  of  the  theatrical  profession. 

The  profession  (as  it  is  expressively  and  somewhat  exclu- 
sively called  by  its  devotees)  embraces,  of  course,  as  many 
"  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  "  as  the  equally  large  profession 
of  newspaper  writers.  While  it  still  remains  a  cruel  fact  that 
any  one  picked  up  "  drunk  and  incapable "  in  a  London 
street  is  usually  described  in  next  day's  Police  News  as 
either  a  journalist  or  an  actress,  there  can  yet  be  no  doubt 
that  the  Bohemianism  of  the  past,  so  far  as  the  higher  class  of 
the  theatrical  world  is  concerned,  is  going  out  of  fashion.  With 
few  exceptions,  it  is  only  among  the  lower  ranks  of  "  pros,"  or  in 
music-halls,  that  it  largely  exists.  These  exceptions  are, 
usually,  to  be  found  among  those  who  have  suddenly  risen 
from  obscurity  on  the  theatrical  firmament,  to  shine  as  bright 
"  stars  "  for  some  brief  period.  Nowhere  is  success  so  sudden, 
so  overwhelming,  so  blinding  as  it  is  in  this  vast  city  of 
London  ;  and  nowhere,  alas  !  is  that  success  so  soon  over, 
forgotten,  eclipsed.  The  deity  of  one  season  is  forsaken  in  the 
next ;  the  Ruler-of-the-Universe  must  perforce  return  to  his  hovel, 
and,  to  say  truth,  he  generally  takes  the  change  badly.  London 
has  a  short  memory.  But  the  medal  has  its  pleasanter  reverse 
side.  For,  per  contra,  the  young  woman  who  has  for  years, 
maybe,  blushed  unseen  in  Camberwell,  wasted  her  sweetness 


xii  FORTUNE'S  WHEEL 


275 


on  seaside  "  fit-ups,"  and  lorded  it  in  third-rate  provincial 
companies,  may,  suddenly,  by  some  unexpected  turn  of 
Fortune's  wheel,  find  herself  elevated  to  the  highest  salaries  in 
the  profession.  From  a  penurious  lodging  in  the  slums, — a 
daily  "  third  return  "  from  Gower  Street, — she  may  rise,  almost 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  to  £40  a  week,  a  flat  in  Mayfair, 
and  a  daintily-clipped  poodle  ! 

It  is,  of  course,  the  fame  of  such  sudden  successes  that 
suffices  to  "  turn  the  heads  "  of  ignorant  neophytes,  who  are  but 
too  apt  to  forget  the  common  maxim,  that  "  the  many  fail,  the 
one  succeeds."  Thus  it  is  that  the  stage  has  been  for  years 
flooded  with  girls  of  all  classes,  all  eager  for  distinction,  and 
all,  alas  !  desiring  "  the  palm  without  the  dust  ! "  Rising 
actresses  have,  as  a  rule,  but  one  ambition — to  act  in  London, 
to  charm  London  audiences.  Better,  some  think,  a  three- 
line  part  at  the  Lyceum  than  a  "  juvenile  lead  "  at  Leamington  ; 
better  twenty  weeks  of  the  Criterion  than  a  cycle  of  the 
Counties  ;  better  a  curtain-raiser  in  the  Haymarket  than 
Shakespeare's  Rosalind  at  Darlington  or  Preston.  Hence  the 
cruel  and  heart-rending  "  struggle-for-life "  among  young 
actresses  in  this  big  city  of  London ;  hence  the  weeks  of  slow 
starvation  in  Bloomsbury  lodgings  or  Soho  garrets,  waiting  for 
work  that  never  comes.  It  is,  indeed,  for  them,  the  "  dust 
without  the  palm."  Disappointed  hopes,  shattered  ambitions, 
tragic  suicides, — what  stories  could  some  of  those  Bloomsbury 
garrets  tell  ! 

"  O  cruel  lamps  of  London,  if  tears  your  light  could  drown, 
Your  victims'  eyes  would  weep  them,  O  lights  of  London  Town." 

Theatrical  managers  are  callous  ;  they  can,  indeed,  hardly  be 
otherwise,  for  the  stage,  like  journalism,  is  scarcely  "  a  charitable 
institution  "  ;  and  the  supply  of  stage  applicants  is  far  greater 
than  the  demand.  When  a  new  play  is  to  be  produced  at  a 
theatre,  see  how  its  waiting-rooms  and  grimy  staircases  are 
daily  crowded  with  young  men  and  women,  all  eager,  all  well- 

T  2 


276  CLOTHES  DEALERS  CHAP. 

dressed,  and  all  anxiously  trying  to  conceal  their  often  desperate 
need  of  money.  For  they  must  always  be  well-dressed  ;  no 
self-respecting  manager  will  ever  think  twice  of  a  shabby  or 
dowdy  young  woman  ;  and  dress  is  difficult  to  procure  on  a 
starvation  diet. 

In  certain  quarters  of  the  Strand  and  of  Soho,  "  ladies  "  are 
to  be  found  who  act  as  superior  "  old  clothes  "  dealers,  buying, 
at  cheap  rates,  the  fine  dresses  of  society  butterflies  from  the 
maids  of  these  latter,  and  retailing  them  again  at  enhanced 
prices  to  the  poor  neophytes  in  the  theatrical  profession.  The 
custom,  no  doubt,  is  advantageous  to  all  parties  concerned ;  to 
the  fine  lady,  who  must  not  be  seen  more  than  three  or  four 
times  in  the  same  gown  ;  to  the  maid,  to  whom  the  said  gowns 
are  "  perquisites "  ;  and,  lastly,  to  the  poor  girl  who  must, 
coute  que  coiite,  procure  her  brocades,  her  gold  lace  and  tinsel 
for  her  provincial  tours.  (London  managers  usually  provide 
the  ladies'  dresses  themselves  ;  the  men  of  the  company,  on 
the  other  hand,  must  provide  their  own.) 

Though  actors  and  actresses  live,  nowadays,  in  all  parts  of 
London,  yet,  perhaps,  they  most  incline  to  Bloomsbury  and 
Soho,  which  classic  region  they  have,  indeed,  haunted  for 
centuries.  In  old  Tudor  and  Shakesperean  times  Shoreditch 
and  Bankside  were  the  favoured  spots,  just  as,  later  on,  Covent 
Garden  with  its  "  Piazza,"  its  Opera-houses,  and  its  general  air 
of  Bohemianism,  became  the  chosen  locality.  The  histrionic 
art  is  no  longer  solely  associated  with  Covent  Garden  and 
Bohemianism  ;  indeed,  the  stars  of  the  profession  now  belong, 
rather,  to  the  smartest  "  set "  in  society  ;  they  often  inhabit 
Mayfair, — and  all  doors,  even  those  of  royalty, —  are  open  to 
them.  But,  just  as  the  "  rank  and  file  "  of  the  profession  still 
haunt  the  classic  neighbourhood  of  the  "  Garden,"  so  the  large 
bulk  of  actors  and  actresses  are  still  to  be  found  in  the  adjacent 
and  convenient  districts  of  Soho  and  Bloomsbury.  In  Blooms- 
bury,  especially,  are  yearly  rising  innumerable  red-brick  flats, 
abodes  largely  tenanted  by  the  theatrical  profession.  Their 


xii  PANTOMIME  CHILDREN  277 

surroundings  tell  of  them;  "  by  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them." 
Hair-dressing  shops,  florists'  shops,  cheap  jewellery  shops,  all 
these  betray  the  tastes  of  the  profession,  and  all  these  abound 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

The  pantomimes,  owing  to  the  enormous  number  of  people 
they  employ,  as  well  as  to  the  great  fillip  they  give  to  certain 
trades  and  occupations,  play  no  inconsiderable  part  in  the  vast 
web  of  London  life.  That  the  Pantomime,  as  a  yearly  pageant, 
has  so  much  increased  in  glory  of  recent  times,  is  due  mainly 
to  the  efforts  of  the  late  Sir  Augustus  Harris,  who  may,  indeed, 
be  said  to  have  reached  the  high-water-mark  of  splendour  in  the 
Christmas  show.  Many  hundreds  of  girls  and  women,  often 
married  and  supporting  families,  are  employed  in  the  vast 
choruses  of  the  Drury-Lane  Theatre, — "  the  Lane  "  as  it  is  called 
in  local  parlance ;  many  hundreds  of  men,  scene-shifters,  car- 
penters, mechanics,  and  the  like,  are  required  for  the  produc- 
tion of  its  stupendous  effects.  Pantomime-land  is,  indeed,  to 
those  who  know  it,  a  country  and  a  life  in  itself.  From  autumn 
to  spring  its  rigors  last ;  from  October  to  March  its  workers 
labour.  A  few  weeks  before  Christmas,  the  annual  fever  is 
at  its  height.  Not  only  grown  people,  but  children  too, 
are  pressed  into  the  service ;  hence,  no  doubt,  the  pretty 
"  steps  "  daily  practised,  throughout  the  year,  by  Cockney  girl 
children  before  street-organs.  Yet,  the  class  whence  these 
children  are  drawn  is  generally  a  more  or  less  superior  one ; 
superior,  at  any  rate,  to  that  which  one  would  naturally  imagine. 
Once,  in  walking  down  Museum  Street,  I  chanced  to  get. just 
behind  three  nice  little  girls  and  their  mother.  It  was  a  foggy, 
murky  evening,  and  they  were  evidently  taking  the  direct  route  for 
Drury  Lane.  They  were  pretty  children,  red-cloaked,  rosy- 
cheeked,  and  neatly  shod,  and  they  tripped  along  demurely, 
holding  each  other's  hands ;  their  mother,  neat  also,  if  a  little 
threadbare,  walking  behind  them,  keeping  a  careful  and  approv- 
ing eye  on  her  little  flock. 

"  Yes,  they're  all  engaged  for  the  winter  at  the  '  Lane,'  "  she 


278  A  PANTOMIME  TYRO  CHAP. 

told  me,  in  response  to  my  sympathetic  inquiry.  "  And  it's  a  great 
help  to  me,  it  is,  indeed  ;  for  my  husband's  ill,  and  he  doesn't 
ever  expect  to  get  much  better.  .  .  .  They're  in  the  '  Flower 
Ballet ' ;  the  eldest,  Lina,  she's  a  Pansy ;  and  the  two  younger 
ones,  they're  both  Daisies.  .  .  .  Quite  a  short  scene ;  they're 
off  in  twenty  minutes.  .  .  .  Interfere  with  their  schooling? 
nothing  to  speak  of,  and  they  enjoy  it.  Yes,  I  take  'em  there, 
and  fetch  'em  back,  twice  every  day ;  I  can  make  shift  to  leave 
my  husband  for  that  time.  .  .  .  and  I  don't  like  'em  to  run  the 
streets  alone.  .  .  .  But  here  we  are.  ..."  a  sudden  lifting  of 
the  fog,  a  sudden  glare  of  light,  and  then  the  Pansy,  the  Daisies, 
and  their  maternal  attendant,  were  swallowed  by  the  big  jaws  of 
the  devouring  "  Lane." 

A  lady  who  went  on  the  pantomime  stage,  by  special  favour,  for 
one  night  only,  for  the  sake  of  the  experience,  has  entertainingly 
related  her  adventures.  Decked  for  the  evening  in  a  gay 
cavalier's  hat,  a  velvet  cloak,  gorgeous  trappings,  and  "  tights," 
she  got  through  her  allotted  part  very  creditably,  though  with  no 
little  nervousness.  The  tights  specially  distressed  her,  and  she 
was  hardly  consoled  by  the  wardrobe-mistress's  kind  assurance, 
that  the  cloak  was  "  so  very  ample  !  "  What  struck  her  prin- 
cipally, in  the  whole  thing,  was  the  good  humour  and  high 
spirits  of  the  ladies  of  the  chorus  and  ballet,  who  all  of  them 
joked  and  laughed  incessantly,  called  each  other  by  pet  names, 
and  seemed,  like  children,  to  know  no  care  or  trouble  in  the 
world.  For  the  moment  they  enjoyed,  or  appeared  to  enjoy, 
the  whole  thing,  and  yet  some  of  these  very  girls  were,  she  knew, 
poor  married  women  whose  lives  were  filled  with  domestic  cares. 
These  regular  winter  engagements  must,  indeed,  haVe  been 
welcome,  for  their  earnings  averaged  from  25^.  to  30^  a  week  for 
six  evening  performances,  with  extra  pay  for  the  daily  matinees. 

The  pantomime  is,  however,  hardly  good  to  count  on  as  a 
living,  being,  after  all,  but  intermittent ;  the  rank-and-file  of  the 
people  engaged  in  the  pantomime  business  have  therefore  often 
other  avocations,  and  are  not  all  full-blown  "pros"  with  ambitions 


xii  STAGE  REHEARSALS  279 

and  yearnings.  Not  for  such  as  these  are  the  cruel  disappoint- 
ments, the  insulting  slights,  the  heart-rending  procrastinations 
that  break  the  spirit  of  so  many  young  men  and  maidens  in 
the  "  profession."  If  some  of  these  could,  indeed,  know  all 
that  was  in  store  for  them,  would  they  so  gaily  have  embraced 
the  theatrical  career?  It  is  a  pity  that  they  cannot  be  first 
disillusioned  by  a  year's  apprenticeship  ;  yet  even  that  might  be 
of  no  avail,  for  when  once  they  have  experienced  the  magic 
glamour  of  the  footlights,  there  is,  indeed,  little  hope  of 
return.  Yet,  to  the  outsider,  who  has  never  felt  this  glamour, 
there  seems  to  be  but  little  attraction  about  even  a  London 
stage  rehearsal.  The  theatre  is  usually  dark,  and  always  dirty  ; 
the  actors,  especially  those  in  secondary  parts,  seem  but  little 
impressed  or  interested  ;  dressed,  too,  in  their  ordinary  clothes, 
they  look  foolish,  and  their  fine  sentiments  seem  out  of  place. 
Even  the  protagonists  are  a  trifle  chilly ;  when  Juliet  or  her 
next-of-kin  unromantically  munches  sandwiches,  seated  on  a 
dusty  box  in  the  wings  ;  when  Romeo,  or  his  more  modern 
prototype,  uses  language  more  convincing  than  elegant;  and 
when  both  are  addressed  with  almost  painful  familiarity  by 
the  dirty  "  call-boy,"  the  glamour  of  the  whole  thing  is  apt,  so  far 
as  the  spectator  is  concerned,  to  be  somewhat  dispelled. 
Then,  the  manager  is  peremptory ;  the  unhappy  author  quivers 
with  emotion— and  generally  also  with  cold — in  the  stalls;  people 
have  a  decided  tendency  to  lose  their  tempers,  and  the 
onlooker  is  reduced  to  wonder  dumbly,— whether  things  can 
possibly  "pull  themselves  together  "for  the  imminent  "first 
night," — and  how  in  the  world  the  dingy,  draughty  theatre  can 
conceivably  transform  itself  into  the  home  of  glory,  wealth,  and 
light  that  the  favoured  audience  of  the  "premiere"  know. 
These  things  are  certainly  an  experience. 

"  Good  society,"  says  M.  Taine  (in  his  Notes  on  England}, 
"  does  not  go  to  the  theatres,  with  the  exception  of  the  two 
opera  houses,  which  are  the  exotic  and  hot-house  plants  of 
luxury,  and  in  which  the  prices  of  admission  are  enormous,  and 


280  "FIRST  NIGHTS"  CHAP. 

evening  dress  is  imperative.  As  to  the  others,  the  audience  is 
recruited  from  among  the  lower  middle  class."  This,  although 
it  contains  a  small  element  of  truth,  is,  nevertheless,  a  manifest 
exaggeration.  For  smart  society  is  a  great  supporter  of  the  drama, 
and  even  royalty,  whose  attendance  in  the  theatre  is  always  an- 
nounced beforehand  by  the  supply  of  white  silk  programmes  in 
the  royal  box,  occasionally  vouchsafes  its  presence.  Especially 
is  there  always  a  great  furore  over  the  procuring  of  "  first  night  " 
seats  at  the  best  London  theatres.  So  far,  indeed,  as  the 
audience  of  the  stalls  is  concerned,  the  "  first-nighters "  are, 
more  or  less,  always  the  same  people ;  influential  magnates, 
editors,  aristocratic  "  patrons  of  the  drama,"  and  a  certain 
proportion  of  smart  London  people,  those  of  whom  it  has 
come  to  be  known  that  they  make  a  point  of  attending  every 
'•  first  night "  of  any  distinction.  Sometimes  invitations  are 
issued;  sometimes,  it  is  a  case  of  making  early  applica- 
tion. The  entree  to  certain  first-nights  is  a  kind  of  social 
distinction.  Often  a  supper  party  is  given  after  the  perform- 
ance, on  the  cleared  stage;  at  such  gatherings  a  spirit  of 
geniality  prevails,  and  smart  society  does  obeisance  generally 
to  the  bright  particular  stars  of  the  drama.  With  the 
more  plebeian  pit  and  gallery  it  is  otherwise.  These  un- 
reservedly express  their  feelings,  and,  after  first  representa- 
tions, voice  the  sentiments  of  the  multitude.  These,  if  the 
curtain  be  at  all  belated  in  rising,  raise  the  house  by  din 
and  hubbub  ;  the  noise  that  they  make,  indeed,  is  apt  to 
scare  the  uninitiated ;  it  resembles  a  revolution  on  a  small 
scale.  The  pit  and  gallery  are  very  intent  on  getting  their  money's 
worth ;  for  they  always  pay  for  their  seats,  and  pay,  not  only  in 
coin  of  the  realm,  but  in  sad  and  weary  hours  of  waiting  in 
the  cold,  drizzled  street.  Who  has  not  noticed,  on  days  of 
bright  spring  weather  and  dreary  autumn  alike,  a  long  crowd 
of  patient  men  and  women  waiting  uncomplainingly  in  a  long 
file  till  the  theatre  doors  should  open  and  admit  them  ?  At 
the  Lyceum,  the  file, — and  this  not  only  on  first  nights, — extends 


XII 


THE  GALLERY 


281 


far  round  the  corner  into  the  Strand.  At  the  Haymarket  Theatre, 
or  the  newer  Her  Majesty's, — it  reaches  far  up  towards  Picca- 


Thc  "Gods." 


dilly  Circus.  Sometimes  a  few  among  the  patient  crowd  have 
provided  themselves  with  campstools  ;  sometimes,  too,  kindly 
managers  or  thoughtful  ladies  like  Miss  Ellen  Terry  send  out  five 


282  THE  MATINEE  HAT  CHAP. 

o'clock  tea  to  the  suffering  humanity  nearest  to  the  theatre  doors  ; 
and,  certainly,  the  "  cup  that  cheers  "  must  prove  exceptionally 
cheering  when  one  has  waited  for  it  in  the  chilly  street  ever 
since  9  A.M.  !  For  very  important  first-night  performances, 
nine,  or  at  latest  10  A.M.  is  essential  if  the  playgoer  would 
make  at  all  sure  of  the  front  row.  It  is  a  long  day's  picnic ;  yet 
the  crowd  remains  ever  amiable  and  stoical.  One  may, 
indeed,  learn  not  a  little  of  philosophy  and  bonhomie  from 
that  motley  crew,  who, — whether  they  be  ladies  from  the  suburbs, 
calmly  eating  sandwiches, — superior  artisans  taking  "  a  day  off," 
— city  clerks, — shop-girls, — or  dressmakers'  apprentices  come  to 
study  the  prevailing  modes, — are  all  uniformly  cheerful.  From 
hour  to  hour  homely  jest  and  rough  witticism  enliven  the  day's 
tedium,  and  testify  to  the  unfailing  good  temper  and  love  of 
fair  play  of  London  crowds. 

The  pit  is  a  sacred  institution  of  London.  We  may,  if  we 
choose,  sympathise  with  the  long  hours  of  waiting  pit-door 
crowds,  but  woe  betide  him  who  would  thoughtlessly  attempt 
to  do  away  with  the  system.  One  manager,  indeed,  did 
recently  attempt  this  ;  but  a  riot  nearly  supervening,  he  had 
perforce  to  take  refuge  in  a  judicious  compromise.  The 
Londoner  is  ever  conservative  in  his  tastes  as  well  as  in  his 
politics.  Ladies  are  allowed  to  wear  their  headgear  in  the 
pit ;  and  the  large  erections  they  sometimes  don  testify  more  to 
their  vanity  than  to  their  philanthropy.  One  sometimes  hears 
a  faint  protest  against  such  exaggerated  types  of  millinery  :  "  I 
'ope  I  sha'n't  'ave  to  sit  be'ind  that  'at,"  a  depressed  pittite  has 
been  heard  to  murmur  when  entering  the  theatre  just  after  a 
"  lydy  "  with  one  of  these  alarming  concoctions. 

Where  are  the  tastes  of  "  the  people  "  with  regard  to  plays  ?  It 
is  difficult  to  generalize.  The  gallery  love  melodrama ;  they 
also  like  a  good  deal  of  moral  sentiment,  which  they  will  often 
loudly  approve  ;  -  to  the  extent,  sometimes,  of  even  offering 
advice  on  the  situation  to  the  actors.  This  is  why  the 
Message  from  Mars,  a  morality  taken  straight  from  Dickens, 


xii  POPULAR  TASTES  283 

went  so  directly  home  to  "the  great  heart  of  the  British 
people."  M.  Taine  complains  that  the  English  have  no 
national  comedy ;  that  all  their  comedies  are  adapted  from  the 
French  ;  "  is  it,"  he  asks,  "  because  of  English  reserve  ?  "  But, 
though  the  pit  and  gallery  are  generally  serious,  they  are  yet 
not  serious  enough  for  Ibsen  ;  "  I  consider  that  there  piece 
blasphemious,"  a  disgusted  artisan  once  said  to  me  of  the 
Master-Builder;  "that  'ere  shillin'  I  spent  on  it  was  clean 
thrown  away ;  1  went  out  arter  the  fust  act."  The  majority  of 
young  men  and  maidens  love  comic  opera,  which  seems,  indeed, 
to  be  one  of  the  paying  "  lines "  in  the  London  of  to-day. 
Music-halls  flourish  ;  it  is  an  eloquent  sign  of  the  times  that 
the  large  and  ornate  "  Palace  Theatre," — opened,  with  such  a 
flourish  of  trumpets,  a  few  years  ago  as  the  "  New  English 
Opera  House,"  and  known  far  and  wide  by  its  flashes  of 
brilliant  search-light, — should  now  have  descended  to  a  "variety" 
show.  The  great  middle-class  supports  Shakespeare  and  the 
"legitimate"  drama  ;  shop-girls,  and  dressmakers'  apprentices, 
like  the  "  society  "  plays  of  the  St.  James's  and  kindred  theatres, 
because  they  offer  some  opportunity  for  seeing  the  ways  of 
that  "high-life"  from  which  they  are  themselves  excluded. 
Millinery  and  costume  are  most  important  factors  in  the 
modern  theatre ;  I  know  of  many  well-to-do  girls  who  never 
think  of  buying  their  season's  hats  and  gowns  till  they  have 
first  seen  them  on  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell,  Mrs.  Tree,  or  Miss 
Winifred  Emery.  And  The  Price  of  Peace,  a  feeble,  but 
immensely  successful  Drury  Lane  melodrama,  owed  its  success 
to  the  fact  that  it  brought  before  the  eyes  of  the  proletariat,  in 
a  variety  of  well-constructed  -scenes,  all  the  select  haunts  and 
fashions  of  the  great  world  :  Tea  on  the  Terrace ;  a  Wedding 
in  Westminster  Abbey ;  a  Debate  in  the  House  of  Commons  ; 
a  Ball  in  Park-Lane,  &c.,  &c.  Such  pieces  are,  of  course,  not 
the  only  favourites  ;  good  comedies  are  very  popular,  and 
English  people,  despite  M.  Taine,  still  like  to  laugh.  Yet,  take 
it  all  round,  "  Good  Society,"  with,  preferably,  a  judicious 


284  THE  STAGE  DOOR  CHAP. 

admixture  of  melodrama  and  sentiment,  is  the  really  paying 
thing  with  the  pit  and  gallery. 

If  the  murky  London  daylight  in  the  theatre  shows  a  mourn- 
ful change  from  its  nocturnal  glories,  even  sadder  is  the  contrast 
between  the  splendid  entrance  hall,  or  lobby,  blazing  with  welcome 
lights,  and  the  dark,  grimy,  and  generally  wretched  "  stage-door," 
which  opens,  mostly,  into  some  gloomy  back-street,  and  seems, 
to  the  uninitiated  at  least,  to  have  no  connection  at  all  with  the 
theatre.  Here,  the  manners  of  the  stage  acolytes  are  altogether 
to  match  with  the  outward  show,  and  there  would  appear  to  exist 
some  traditional  and  transmitted  dislike  to  soap-and-water. 
Strange  stories  some  of  these  stage  doors  could  tell  !  The  stage 
door  of  the  "  Adelphi,"  for  instance,  where  poor  William  Terriss 
was  brutally  murdered  by  the  criminal  lunatic  whom  he  had  be- 
friended,— does  it  not  still  give  to  its  old  locality  a  suggestion  of 
blood  and  tears  ?  Are  not  the  vicissitudes,  too,  of  theatres  as 
striking  and  as  dramatic  in  their  way  as  those  of  other  historic 
houses  ?  Now  they  are  great  and  well-known ;  then  disaster 
overtakes  them,  and  their  very  names,  for  years,  are  forgotten, — 
till  at  last  they  go  the  way  of  old  bricks  and  mortar.  In  their 
final  dirt  and  disgrace  they  hardly  recall  the  scenes  of  their  former 
triumphs.  One  might,  indeed,  become  superstitious  when  one 
sees  how  Fortune  seems  to  befriend  certain  theatres,  and  as  per- 
sistently to  frown  on  others.  As  for  some  old  playhouses, — 
their  day  once  over,  their  place  knows  them  no  more.  .  .  . 
The  old  Prince  of  Wales's  Theatre,  for  instance,  in  Tottenham 
Street,  so  famous  in  the  early  triumphs  of  the  Bancrofts  and 
Kendals, — who  recalls  it  in  its  present  ruin  and  discomfiture? 
The  Salvation  Army  has  lately  taken  pity  on  it ;  but  apparently 
its  hour  has  now  come,  and  with  its  adjacent  tenement-houses 
in  Pitt  Street,  where  its  green-rooms  were,  it  lies  at  the 
mercy  of  fate  and  the  hammer. 

The  London  theatres  are  nearly  all  of  them  in  crowded 
situations,  and  often  so  devious  and  unexpected  are  the  ways 
by  which  they  are  reached  that  if  the  city  were  at  some  distant 


xii  PICCADILLY  285 

age  dug  out  from  oblivion  like  that  of  Pompeii,  the  results 
might  be  even  more  puzzling  to  the  antiquary.  The  stalls, 
for  instance,  of  the  Criterion  Theatre  are  deep  underground, 
reached  by  myriad  carpeted  stairs ;  even  the  upper  circles  are 
well  below  the  street.  And  what  a  strange  and  indecipherable 
"  crypto-porticus  "  would  the  "  Twopenny  Tube  "  prove  to  some 
future  Middleton  of  the  ages?  In  central  parts,  London, 
indeed,  seems  a  city  built  in  several  superimposed  layers; 
layers,  too,  not  successive,  but  coeval. 

The  life  of  London,  always  intense,  burns  at  its  highest 
pressure  in  and  near  Piccadilly  Circus,  and  a  restless  activity 
reigns  here  all  through  the  long  hours  of  day  and  night. 
For  this  is,  so  to  speak,  one  of  the  main  doorways  of  the 
immense  ant-heap ;  like  ants,  too,  people  seem  to  swarm  inces- 
santly, to  go  and  come,  in  inconsequent  but  feverishly  active 
sequence.  Here  is  a  blaze  of  light,  a  perpetual  throng  of 
"  London's  gondola,"  the  hansom-cab,  a  confused  medley  of 
many  sounds,  that  ceases  not,  but  fades  only  after  midnight ; 
when  the  "  heart  of  London,"  that  never  sleeps,  subsides  in 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning  into  a  dulled  and  general  hum. 

At  Piccadilly,  the  foreign  element  from  Leicester  Square 
and  Soho  meets  the  native  one.  The  French,  Italian,  and 
German  tongues  are,  indeed,  frequently  heard  all  over  London  ; 
but  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Leicester  Square,  the  visitor 
really  might,  especially  on  a  sunny  fogless  day,  imagine  himself 
in  Paris  or  Berlin.  The  shops  have  foreign  names ;  "  Blanchis- 
serie  Fine  "  alternates  with  "  Deutsche  Droguenhandlung  "  or 
"Vino  Scelto " ;  French  waiters  and  Italian  cooks  stand, 
white-capped  and  white-aproned,  smilingly  at  the  doors  of  their 
respective  restaurants ;  cheap  and  fair  hostelries  for  wandering 
foreigners,  with  beds  as  low  in  price  as  two  shillings  per  night, 
rise  towering  on  every  side.  It  is  said  that  the  French  colony, 
in  particular,  of  Leicester  Square  and  Soho  owes  its  origin  to  the 
early  French  refugees  who,  at  various  stormy  periods,  have 
sought  shelter  here  from  the  internal  dissensions  of  their  own 


286  THE  ETHICS  OF  HAIR-DRESSING  CHAP. 

country.  It  has  been  said  that,  as  far  north  as  Seven  Dials, 
the  organ-grinders  still  find  the  "  Marseillaise "  the  most 
lucrative  tune  to  play;  and  this  may  well  be  so,  though  I 
myself  have  generally  found,  at  least  among  the  rising  genera- 
tion, the  latest  music-hall  song  or  dance  to  be  in  the  ascendant. 
There  is.  another  subject  I  would  fain  touch  on  here,  at  the 
risk  even  of  irrelevance ;  it  refers  to  the  Soho  style  of  coiffure. 
That  there  is  a  special  fashion  in  ladies'  hair-dressing  peculiar 
to  every  district  in  London,  is  a  fact  which  every  passing  visitor 
must  soon  recognize;  thus,  while  in  Clerkenwell  model- 
lodging-houses  it  is  generally  (except  for  one  short  hour  or  two 
on  Sundays), — Hinde's  curlers, — in  Seven  Dials  it  is  mostly  of 
the  "  touzled  "  order,  and  in  the  West  End  of  the  classic  "  New 
Greek  style."  Here,  in  Leicester  Square,  it  has  a  partly-French, 
partly-theatrical  air,  being  generally  parted  in  the  middle,  and 
brought,  in  smooth,  dark,  exaggerated  Early  Victorian  loops, 
well  over  the  ears.  But  details  are  more  important  than  people 
imagine.  •  "Nothing,"  says  M.  Gabriel  Mourey,  "so  reveals  a 
woman's  psychology  as  her  way  of  doing  her  hair."  And  the 
observant  Frenchman  goes  on  to  draw  certain  quaint  inferences 
from  .the  English  girl's  style  of  coiffure,  and  her  neatly  braided 
tresses,  careless  of  such  aids  to  beauty  as  stray  curls  or  "  meches 
folles ; "  a  severe  style  that,  according  to  this  writer,  "forms  a  rude 
contrast  to  the  spiritual  charm  of  her  face,  her  Burne-Jonesian 
refinement  of  feature,"  .  .  As  to  the  manner  of  hair-dressing 
betraying  the  personality,  "nothing,"  he  adds  paradoxically, 
"  could  be  more  true  of  the  typical  Englishwoman,  who  never  of 
her  own  free  will,  allows  you  to  see  a  fraction  of  her  real  self,  but 
draws  into  her  shell  of  reserve  with  the  same  jealous  reclusive- 
ness  that  makes  her  bind  her  hair  in  such  dull,  tight,  regular 
uniformity." 

M.  Mourey  is  certainly  more  polite  to  us  than  was  M.  Taine, 
who  said  unkindly  that  Englishwomen  had  big  feet,  as  large  as 
those  of  watermen,  "and  gait  and  boots  in  keeping";  also, 
that  "  it  is  impossible  to  train  one's  self  to  endure  their  long 


xii  CHEAP  RESTAURANTS  287 

projecting  teeth;"  the  effect,  he  supposes,  of  a  carnivorous 
diet !  "  The  point  of  view,"  again,  not  merely  Anglophobia  ! 
The  red-whiskered  Englishman  dressed  in  blatant  checks ; — 
his  long-toothed  gaunt  spouse, — how  long  will  these  ridiculous 
fictions  haunt  the  French  mind  ?  But  even  M.  Taine  would 
have  been  happy  in  Soho.  Here,  even  the  Englishwoman  is 
less  aggressively  English ;  indeed,  she  blends,  in  indescribable 
medley,  the  qualities  both  of  the  Belle  of  New  York  and  of  the 
Parisian  boulevards  !  Soho,  however,  is  remarkable  for  other 
things  than  mere  hairdressing.  For  the  gastronomic  talent 
that  the  French  so  naturally  possess  causes  this  whole  district, 
including  the  neighbouring  Covent  Garden,  to  be  noted,  not 
only  for  many  second-class  "  eating-houses,"  but  also  for  good 
and  moderately  priced  places  to  dine.  The  vast  reform  in  this 
respect  that  has  taken  place  of  late  years  all  over  London 
probably  owes  not  a  little  to  these  early  pioneers  in  the  art. 

With  the  multiplication  of  cheap  and  good  restaurants  has 
grown  in  equal  ratio  the  importation  of  Swiss  and  Italian 
waiters.  These,  every  year,  emigrate  from  their  romantic 
valleys  to  our  foggy  shores,  and  work  out  their  three,  four,  or 
five  years  in  an  alien  land,  partly  for  the  sake  of  better  wages, 
partly  for  that  of  learning  the  English  language — an  accomplish- 
ment without  which  no  foreign  waiter  is  now  considered  fully 
equipped.  With  unsparing  thrift,  they  save  the  greater  part  of 
their  wages ;  and  they  acquire  the  language  as  quickly  as  they 
can ;  with  these  two  possessions  they  return  to  their  own 
country,  where  they  may  either  at  once  demand  a  higher  salary, 
— or,  if  already  well-to-do,  buy  a  small  holding  and  "settle 
down."  When  they  first  arrive  in  London,  they  are  generally 
very  young  men,  who  come  in  faith  and  hope  to  the  rumoured 
"  golden  land  "  of  England,  leaving  their  lovely  native  valley  and 
their  romantic  homesteads  with  no  less  courage  and  resolution 
than,  in  mediaeval  times,  would  have  drawn  them  forth,  at  a 
mercenary's  wage,  to  the  bloody  field  of  war.  The  late  Mr.  J.  A. 
Symonds,  whose  sympathies  with,  and  knowledge  of,  the  Swiss- 


288  .SWISS  WAITERS  CHAP. 

Italian  waiter  are  well  known,  has,  he  tells  us,  often  wondered 
why  the  Alpine  peasant  goes  through  such  cruel  and  comfortless 
expatriation.  "  The  answer,"  he  says,  "is  very  simple  : 

"  lie  wants-to  make  money,  and  has  the  most  resolute  intention,  after 
making  it,  to  settle  down  at  home  and  live  the  pleasant  life  of  his  fore- 
fathers in  the  mountains.  In  olden  days  he  would  have  fought  on  any  and 
every  battlefield  of  Europe  to  get  cash.  But  European  history  has  turned 
over  a  new  leaf.  '  Tempora  mutantur  et  nos  mutamur  in  illis,'  and  the 
Swiss  make  more  by  Fremdeninduslrie  than  they  could  do  by  foreign 
military  service  in  this  age." 

Landing  in  London  with  a  small  and  hardly-saved  pittance 
in  their  pockets,  these  lads  usually  live,  as  cheaply  as  may  be, 
in  and  about  Soho  and  Covent  Garden,  until  such  time  as  they 
can  obtain  employment.  Switzerland,  and  especially  Canton 
Ticino,  furnishes  a  large  part  of  the  London  waiters  ;  yet  all  Italy, 
too,  contributes  her  share.  Even  from  one  of  the  lonely  hill- 
towns  of  the  Apennines,  three  elegant  youths,  faultlessly  attired, 
— servants  of  the  inn,  but  whom  I  had  imagined  from  their 
superior  manners  to  be  resident  aristocrats, — once  begged  me  to 
take  them  into  my  service,  as  footmen,  cooks,  knife-and-boot-boys, 
anything ;  "  anything,  madame,  just  to  get  a  footing  in  England." 
Though  the  desirability  of  these  as  servants  in  private  houses 
might,  perhaps,  be  doubtful, — yet  it  is  certain  that  in  restaurants 
or  hotels,  —  in  quickness  and  in  reliability, — the  Swiss  or  Italian 
waiter  far  excels  the  English  one.  He  rarely  loses  his  temper. 
I  have  seen  one  waiting,  single-handed,  upon  at  least  fifty  im- 
patient diners,  and  contenting  every  one.  We  can  teach  them 
very  little.  Yet  they  like  to  learn  of  us  all  they  can.  "  I  have 
learned  a  few  things  in  England,"  the  son  and  waiter  in  a  little 
Swiss  inn  once  said  to  me ;  a  pleasant,  rosy-cheeked  youth,  just 
over  twenty,  recently  returned  from  a  two  years'  service  in  London 
to  the  parental  hostelry  in  a  lonely,  narrow  valley.  "  Yes.  I 
have  learned  something  very  fine."  And  he  drew  my  attention  to 
the  quaint  white-washed  walls  of  the  inn,  made  hideous  by 
Japanese  fans  and  cheap  paper  rosettes,  &c. 


xii  THE  "WANDERLUST"  289 

"  You  are  English  ?  "  he  went  on,  with  a  pleased  smile ;  "  ah, 
then,  you  know  my  place  in  London,  Scott's  ?  " 

(By  "  Scott's,"  he  designated,  as  it  turned  out,  the  oyster-bar 
at  the  top  of  the  Haymarket,  which  locality  he  apparently  con- 
sidered to  represent  the  sum  and  total  of  "  smart  "  London  life.) 

"  Ah,  I  shall  do  this  place  up  in  fine  style,"  he  said,  looking 
contemptuously  round  him  at  the  modest  but  picturesque 
paternal  inn.  "  Why,  you  will  hardly  know  it  again  next  year  ! 
I  shall  have  the  salle-a-manger  pypered— (he  had  learned  the 
cockney  dialect  well),  "  pypered  with  bunches  of  fruit,  flowers, 
monkeys — all  in  the  English  manner — ah  !  you  will  see  !  I 
shall  wake  them  all  up  ! " 

And  the  "  salle-a-manger,"  with  its  old  black-panelled  walls, 
was  so  much  prettier  as  it  was  ! 

To  be  a  waiter,  however,  even  an  "  oyster-bar  "  waiter,  is  a 
superior  position  to  that  of  a  mere  porter ;  and  to  be  porters, 
"boots,"  hotel  drudges  of  any  and  every  description,  "just  to 
get  a  footing,"  is  the  primary  aim  of  these  sturdy  aliens.  Not 
only  money  and  future  advantage,  but  also  what  is  known  as 
the  "  Wanderlust,"  is,  perhaps,  yet  another  factor  in  the  impulse 
that  drives  them  from  their  homes.  However  this  may  be, 
rarely  do  they  stay  in  the  land  of  their  bondage  beyond  the 
allotted  time ;  still  more  rarely  do  they  "  colonize  "  in  our 
sense  of  the  word ;  but  have  ever  before  them,  through  all 
their  struggles  and  hardships,  the  thought  of  the  peaceful 
mountain  home  and  honest  competency  that  shall  be  theirs  in 
middle  age.  .  .  Poor  lads  !  when  I  see  you,  worn  and  shabby, 
waiting,  perhaps,  in  that  long,  pitiful  black  line  of  seedy  appli- 
cants, now  hopeful,  now  despairing  of  engagement,  outside  the 
big  London  restaurants,  I  confess  to  a  tightness  in  my  throat, 
thinking  how,  like  Calverley's  little  Savoyard  of  Hatton  Garden  : 

"  Far  from  England,  in  the  sunny 
South,  where  Anio  leaps  in  foam, 
Thou  wast  bred,  till  lack  of  money 
Drew  thee  from  thy  vine-clad  home." 


290  THE  BROTHERS  GATTI  CHAP. 

Surely  the  traveller  who  returns,  yearly,  from  his  pleasant 
tour  in  Alpine  valleys,  might  always,  here  in  foggy  London, 
yield  to  the  motive  that  prompts  him,  after  a  well-served  dinner, 
to  "give  to  the  poor  devil  "  an  extra  sixpence,  reflecting,  mean- 
while, that  he  is  thereby  hastening  the  happy,  far-off  time  when 
that  "  poor  devil,"  enriched  by  years  of  painful  toil  and  honest 
endeavour,  may  return  to  his  valley,  his  home,  his  boyhood's 
love  perhaps,  and  his  own  little  patch  of  tillage. 

The  great  monument  of  the  "  Fremden-Industrie "  in 
London,  as  well  as  the  focus  and  centre  of  the  Swiss- Italian 
immigrants,  is,  of  course,  the  establishment  known  as (l  Gatti's." 
Everyone  knows  the  "Adelaide  Gallery,"  and  the  palatial, 
velvet-cushioned  restaurant  that  fronts  the  Strand.  What  were 
the  beginnings  of  this  great  business  ?  The  brothers  Agostino 
and  Stefano  Gatti,  chocolate-makers,  ice-cream  princes, 
theatrical  managers, — who  has  not  heard  of  them  from  time 
immemorial  ? — has  not  their  fame,  in  melodrama  no  less  than  in 
meringues,  been  almost  a  household  word?  In  1868,  already 
they  were  naturalized  as  Englishmen  ;  yet  Mr.  Agostino  Gatti, 
native  of  Ticino,  was  none  the  less  elected  as  a  representative 
to  the  supreme  Swiss  Federal  Assembly.  The  two  brothers 
began  modestly,  in  a  small  way ;  they  managed  everything 
themselves ;  standing,  daily,  shirt-sleeved,  at  their  desk  at 
receipt  of.  custom,  they  were  familiar  figures  of  the  past.  They 
succeeded  on  the  principle  of  Dickens's  honest  grocer,  Mr. 
Barton,  who  made  it  his  boast  that  "  he  was  never  above  his 
business,  and  he  hoped  his  business  would  never  be  above 
him  ! "  The  "  Maison  Gatti,"  the  brothers'  private  house, 
stands  in  dignified  Bedford  Square  ;  and  the  firm  of  Gatti,  the 
heads  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen  in  their  shops,  has  doubtless 
amassed  a  large  fortune.  That  fortune  was  well  deserved ; 
for  the  Gattis  were  among  the  pioneers  in  the  reforming  of 
restaurants. 

"There  is  no  more  curious  sight  in  London,"  writes  the  chronicler  of 
the  Gattis,  "than  the  Adelaide  Gallery  between  five  and  seven  o'clock  in 


XII 


THE  ICE-CREAM  TRADE 


291 


the  evening.  From  the  door  which  opens  into  the  street  which  runs  by 
the  graveyard  of  St.  Martin's  Church,  to  the  handsome  frontage  which 
opens  into  the  Strand,  every  table  is  occupied  by  a  remarkable  assemblage 
of  men,  women,  and  children.  The  husband  brings  his  wife,  the  mother 


Ice-cream  Barrow. 

brings  her  children,  the  lover  brings  his  sweetheart,  and  the  Church,  the 
stage,  the  press — each  sends  its  representatives.  Tragedies  and  comedies 
have  been  enacted  over  those  marble-topped  tables  which,  if  they  were 
related,  would  make  the  fortune  of  a  thousand  playwrights. " 

The  ice-cream  trade,  however,  with  which  the  brothers  Gatti 

u  2 


292  THE  ITALIAN  COLONY  CHAP. 

largely  identified  themselves,  is  carried  on,  on  inferior  lines, 
to-day  in  Hatton  Garden,  Little  Saffron  Hill,  and  Clerkenwell. 
Here  is  the  poorer  Italian  colony ;  organ-grinders,  ice-cream- 
barrow-men,  "  hokey-pokey "  sellers,  and  their  like.  Here, 
among  a  population  of  more  or  less  honest  toilers,  congregate 
the  waifs  and  strays  of  civilisation,  people  who,  owing  perhaps 
to  their  peripatetic  and  uncertain  trade,  could  hardly  help 
being  loafers,  even  were  they  not  mainly  Neapolitans  to  boot : 
a  difficult  word,  which  has  been  corrupted  by  the  low  English 
in  the  vicinity,  into  first  "  Nappleton "  and  then  simply 
"  Appleton."  City  improvements  have,  however,  ousted  the 
chief  Neapolitan  colony  from  Great  arid  Little  Saffron  Hills ; 
and  Eyre  Street  Hill,  with  its  adjacent  slums  and  alleys,  is 
now  their  peculiar  haunt.  In  the  worst  byways,  and  after 
dark,  this  is  said  to  be  a  dangerous  quarter  to  visit, 
Neapolitans  being  always  proverbially  ready  with  the  knife.  .  . 
Nevertheless,  on  fine  spring  days,  it  is  not  unpicturesque ; 
the  gay  dresses  of  the  women,  the  groups  of  handsome, 
dark-eyed  youths,  and  the  merry,  brightly-clad  children, 
lending  almost  an  Italian  charm  to  the  scene.  And  the 
charming,  curly-haired  boys  —  the  pretty  and  pathetic  Savoyard, 
with  his  beloved  monkey  in  a  red  coat — who  does  not  know 
them  ?  The  men  have  other  resources,  as  well  as  ice-creams 
and  street-organs.  Some  of  them  hire  themselves  out  as 
artists'-models  to  the  big  studios,  a  business  which  is  well  paid, 
and  to  which  the  picturesque  Italian  beauty  well  lends  itself. 
Some,  more  skilled,  are  perhaps  modellers  of  stucco  images, 
which  are  hawked  about  the  streets  by  others ;  some  are 
knife-grinders,  who  go  about  with  a  wheel,  and  make,  it  is 
said,  the  best  earnings  of  all.  In  the  summer  these  poor 
exotics  from  the  land  of  the  sun  manage  to  live,  no  doubt, 
pretty  tolerably ;  in  the  winter,  surely  not  even  the  chestnut- 
roasting  apparatus  that  they  hawk  from  street  to  street  can 
suffice  to  keep  them  warm  !  They  generally  live  in  human 
rabbit  warrens,  under  the  patronage  of  a  "padrone,"  a  sort 


STURDY  ALIENS 


293 


of  modified  and  amiable  slave-dealer,  who  imports  them  from 
their  native  land,  and  pockets,  as  price,  a  share  of  their  earn- 


ings.    They  live  poorly  and  frugally  ;  and  those  of  us    who 
know  the  long  street  of  Portici,  will  not,  in   the  fouler  air  of 


294  EYRE  STREET  HILL  CHAP. 

London,  expect  much  from  their  homes  in  the  way  of  cleanli- 
ness. Yet  the  Italian  women  who,  with  their  "men"  and 
their  babies,  accompany  the  street  organs,  are  generally  trim 
and  smiling,  and,  so  far  as  foot-gear  and  general  neatness  of 
appearance  is  concerned  — are  immeasurably  the  superiors  of 
their  English  slum-sisters. 

The  Italian  woman  seems,  indeed, — in  London,  at  any  rate, 
— always  vastly  superior  to  the  Italian  man.  She  is  religious ; 
she  goes,  as  a  rule,  regularly  to  her  V  Chiesa  Cattolica."  She 
is  cleaner,  smarter,  pleasanter;  she  does  most  of  the  work; 
she  often  does  the  principal  part  of  the  organ-pushing — 
while  her  loafing  partner  slouches  along  by  her  side,  yearning, 
doubtless,  for  his  "polenta"  and  his  midday  siesta.  She 
helps — indeed,  her  entire  family,  down  to  the  babies,  help— in 
the  matutinal  manufacture  of  the  mysterious  "  hokey-pokey," 
whence,  in  the  early  morning  hours,  her  "  court  "  is  a  perfect 
babel  of  chatter  and  noise,  and  Eyre  Street  Hill  becomes  a 
strange  sight  for  the  inexperienced  Londonner.  Not  only 
Neapolitans,  but  Sicilians,  Tuscans,  Venetians,  are  represented  ; 
indeed,  the  dialects  and  the  slang  used  are  so  unlike,  that  the 
different  circles  of  this  Italian  colony  often  themselves  fail  to 
understand  one  another.  In  the  evenings,  and  generally  on 
their  doorsteps,  the  men  play  "  mora/'  and  gamble ;  while  the 
women,  for  their  part,  patch  clothes,  chatter,  and  gesticulate 
in  true  native  fashion.  Later,  the  lord  of  creation,  leaving  his 
lady  at  home,  goes  off  to  the  "  Club  Vesuvio  "  or  to  the  "  Club 
Garibaldi,"  where  dancing  goes  on  to  a  tune  struck  up  by  a 
fiddler,  and  the  lowest  type  of  London  girls,  befeathered, 
shawled,  and  dishevelled  in  true  East-End  fashion,  dance  with 
dirty  and  brigand-like  Italian  men.  It  is  a  strange  life,  and 
stranger  still  is  the  manner  in  which  various  types  and  nation- 
alities have  thus  for  generations  "squatted  down"  in  special 
districts  of  the  metropolis,  and  filled  them  with  their  traditions, 
their  atmosphere,  their  personality. 

Many  other  colonies  are  to  be  seen  in   London  ;  it  is  the 


THE  ORIENTALS 


295 


most  polyglot  of  cities.  For  those  interested  in  such  matters, 
nothing  would  give  a  better  idea  of  the  many-sided  life  of  the 
metropolis  than  to  take  a  long  Sunday  walk  through  its  various 
districts.  To  quote  the  words  of  a  recent  writer  : 

"Sunday  is,  above  all  days,  the  day  for  such  excursions,  because  there 
are  none  of  the  distractions  of  every-day  life,  or  the  bustle  of  business 
affairs.  It  is  on  Sunday  you  can  see  how  polyglot  London  is,  how  the 
gregarious  foreigners,  herding  together,  occupy  whole  districts,  living  their 
own  life,  following  the  manners  and  customs  of  their  own  country,  enjoying 
their  own  forms  of  religion,  amusement,  and  business." 

The  Yiddish  colony  of  Whitechapel,  the  Jewish  Ghetto; 
the  Asiatic  colony  in  Poplar  and  the  Dock  neighbourhood 
generally;  these  and  others  display  all  the  picturesqueness, 
the  local  colour,  the  kaleidoscopic  life  that  many  travellers  go 
to  distant  lands  to  experience.  In  London,  all  peoples,  and 
all  classes,  have  their  traditional  strongholds,  which  are  known 
and  labelled.  Thus,  Bayswater,  where  the  "  high  life " 
among  the  Asiatic  colonists  makes  its  home,  is  generally 
spoken  of  by  foreigners  as  "  Asia  Minor."  Here  live  the 
rich  and  cultured  Orientals,  those  who  have  come  over  for 
pleasure,  business,  trade,  or  education ;  as  for  their  poorer 
brethren,  they  live  out  in  Poplar,  Shadwell,  or  anywhere  in 
the  near  vicinity  of  the  East  India  Docks. 

These  Asiatics  of  the  East  End  are  a  strange  and  motley 
crew ;  brought  in  by  every  steamer,  every  heavily-cargoed 
ship  from  the  East,  every  trader  "  dropping  down  with  costly 
bales."  On  the  largest  ships,  say  those  of  the  P.  and  O. 
Company,  vessels  of  some  7,000  tons,  there  will  be  perhaps 
some  120  Orientals  on  board,  and,  with  such  contingents 
continually  arriving,  there  is,  naturally,  in  the  East  End,  a 
large  foreign,  though  ever-shifting,  population.  Curious  are 
the  corruptions  of  Indian  words  one  hears,  and  strange  indeed 
are  the  sights  and  sounds  among  Malays,  Chinese,  and 
Indians.  The  famous  opium  dens  of  the  East  End,  turned 
to  such  dramatic  account  not  only  in  Dickens's  Edivin 


296  OPIUM  DENS  CHAP. 

Droody  but  also,  at  a  later  day,  in  the  Sherlock  Holmes 
sequence  of  stories,  are  now  much  restricted  in  their  horrors 
by  police  supervision.  They  used  to  be  devils'  haunts,  famed 
for  robbery  and  vice — traps  set  to  catch  the  unwary  Asiatic  ;  but 
missionary  work,  combined  with  the  clearances  made  by  the  East 
London  Railway,  has  effected  great  improvement  in  the  opium 
den  of  to-day.  In  the  words  of  the  writer  before-mentioned  : 

"  It  looks  like  a  private  house,  and  no  noise  is  permitted,  for  it  is 
necessary  to  keep  it  as  private  as  possible  to  prevent  police  interference.  For 
they  are  invariably  gambling  dens  also,  and  the  Asiatic  who  goes  to  gamble 
still  burns  his  joss-stick  before  the  idol  set  up  inside,  in  order  to  propitiate 
his  deity  and  get  good  luck.  Though  repellant  in  appearance,  there  is  a 
certain  picturesqueness  about  the  interior  of  these  places.  The  shrine 
stands  just  inside  the  door,  and  there  is  a  pungent  odour  from  the  ever- 
burning incense,  while  vases  of  artificial  flowers,  mingling  among  such 
queer  votive  offerings  as  biscuits  and  cups  of  tea,  give  it  a  strange  appear- 
ance. The  Canton  matting,  which  is  largely  used  in  the  rooms,  gives  a 
little  local  colour,  and  the  personnel  of  the  place  is  of  a  decided  polyglot 
order.  You  may  possibly  see  one  or  two  men  lying  about  sleeping  off 
the  results  of  their  opium  .debauch  :  but  gambling  seems  to  be  the  main 
feature." 

Nevertheless,  even  in  these  "  reformed "  dens,  the  home- 
coming sailor,  or  the  imprudent  Lascar,  may  find  himself 
tempted  to  his  undoing  and  "  cleaned  out "  of  all  his  hard-won 
earnings.  Or  he  may  possibly  be  "  knifed,"  and,  if  the 
criminal  escape,  in  this  region  of  obscure  and  unknown  "by- 
ways," even  the  experienced  police  may  be  hard  set  to  find 
him.  It  is,  indeed,  a  true  "Vanity  Fair,"  this  East  End  of 
London,  for  poor  Christian  and  Faithful,  fresh  from  the  sea 
and  all  its  dangers. 

The  Yiddish  colony  is  also  a  city  by  itself.  The  Jews  who 
foregather  in  Whitechapel  are  mostly  of  Polish,  Russian,  or 
German  extraction,  and  their  talk,  to  unused  ears,  sounds 
like  a  strange  German  lingo,  unpleasantly  whined  through  the 
nose.  Indeed,  it  closely  resembles  German ;  the  word 
"  Yiddish "  itself  being  but  a  corruption  of  the  German 
"  Jiidisch,"  or  Jewish.  These  people,  whose  "  interpreters  " 


xii  A  "HIRING-FAIR"  297 

figure  largely  at  nearly  every  police-court  brawl  in  Whitechapel, 
Shoreditch,  and  Spitalfields,  may  be  said  to  be  a  law  and  a  dis- 
pensation to  themselves.  They  crowd,  in  their  numbers,  into 
dirty  tenement  houses,  in  yet  dirtier  streets ;  streets  in  which 
they  barter,  buy  and  sell  with  all  the  instinct  and  all  the 
indomitable  energy  of  their  race.  Here  are  the  tailors' 
sweating  dens,  so  often  deplored  by  philanthropic  "  com- 
missions "  ;  here  human  toil  is  reduced,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
"  middleman,"  to  its  lowest  possible  price.  The  so-called 
"  Jewish  slave-market,"  to  the  existence  of  which  attention  has 
been  called  in  the  Press,  is  a  strange  and  unpleasing  custom. 
Here  the  Jewish  "  slave-owner  "  is,  more  or  less,  in  the  place 
of  the  Italian  "  padrone "  already  referred  to,  in  that  he 
imports  human  material,  and  "farms  out "  human  labour  : 

"Any  one  who  devotes  a  Sunday  or  two  to  visiting  the  open-air  markets 
in  the  Jewish  quarter,  will  have  noticed  on  the  fringe  of  the  markets  groups 
of  men,  sometimes  with  women  and  children.  If  you  are  under  the  convoy 
of  a  Jewish  acquaintance  who  '  knows  the  ropes,'  he  will  tell  you  that  it  is  a 
'hiring  fair.'  But  it  has  a  suspiciously  close  approximation  to  a  slave 
market." 

Leases  of  human  labour,  sold,  at  starvation  wages  for  the 
victims,  to  the  highest  bidder,  are  not  unnatural  to  a  slum 
Yiddish  population  whose  whole  life  is  spent  in  barter.  The 
Jewish  colony  in  the  East  End  now  numbers  some  35,000 
souls  : 

" Only  recently  Lord  Rothschild  described  it  as  a 'new  Toland,'  and 
said  that  it  was  the  business  of  the  nation '  first  to  humanise  it  and  then 
Anglicise  it.'  It  certainly  wants  humanising." 

The  cosmopolitanism  of  London  tends  to  draw  to  it  the 
sweepings,  as  well  as  the  choice  spirits, — the  worst,  as  well  as 
the  best, — of  all  other  nations  and  climes.  "  Hell  is  a  city  much 
like  London,"  said  the  poet  Shelley;  and  he  spoke  truth. 
Views,  religious  and  otherwise,  differ  largely  as  to  what  Hell 
may  be ;  one  opinion,  however,  may  be  safely  hazarded ;  that 
it  will  at  any  rate  be  cosmopolitan. 


A  Sale  at  Christies. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LONDON    SHOPS    AND    MARKETS 
"  The  busy  Mart  of  London." 

"  Gay  shops,  stately  palaces,  bustle  and  breeze, 
The  whirring  of  wheels,  and  the  murmur  of  trees  ; 
By  night  or  by  day,  whether  noisy  or  stilly, 
Whatever  my  mood  is,  I  love  Piccadilly." — 

Locker- Lampson-,  London  Lyrics. 

I  AM  confident  that  if  a  million  of  women  of  all  classes 
could  by  any  possibility  be  placed  in  a  Palace  of  Truth,  and 
interrogated  straitly  as  to  what  they  liked  best  in  all  London,  the 
vast  majority  of  them  would  answer,  "  The  Shops."  Indeed, 
you  may  easily,  and  without  any  undue  inquisitiveness,  find 


CH.  xiii  SHOPS  AND  SHOP-GAZERS 


299 


this  out  for  yourself  by  simply  taking  (in  May  for  choice)  a 
morning  or  afternoon  walk  down  Oxford  Street  or  Regent 
Street.  Every  shop  of  note  will  have  its  quota  of  would-be 
buyers,  trembling  on  the  brink  of  irrevocable  purchase ;  its 
treble,  nay,  quadruple  row  of  admiring  females,  who  appear  to 
find  this  by  far  the  most  attractive  mode  of  getting  through 
the  day.  I  would  go  further,  and  say  that  as  regards  the  more 
persevering  among  them,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  that  they 
ever  have  any  other  occupation  at  all. 

The  shops  of  London  have  wonderfully  improved  in  quite 
recent  years ;  not  perhaps,  so  much  in  actual  quality,  as  in 
arrangement  and  taste.  Labels  with  "dropsical  figures"  of 
shillings  and  perfectly  invisible  pence  have,  as  in  Dickens's 
time,  still  their  charm  for  us ;  but  other  things  have  changed. 
Everything  could,  to  those  who  "  knew,"  always  be  bought  best 
in  London ;  but  everything  was  not  always  displayed  to  the 
best  advantage.  To  dress  a  shop-front  well  was  in  old  days 
hardly  considered  a  British  trait.  But  "nous  avons  change 
tout  cela."  Now,  even  the  Paris  boulevard,  that  Paradise  of 
good  Americans,  has,  except  perhaps  in  the  matter  of  trees  and 
wide  streets,  little  to  teach  us.  "  The  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of 
Ind  "  that  the  shops  of  Regent  Street  and  Bond  Street  display, 
their  gold  embroideries  and  wonderfully  woven  silks,  tending 
to  make  a  kleptomaniac  out  of  the  very  elect, — these  it  would 
be  hard  indeed  to  beat.  Not  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
arrayed  like  one  of  these. 

Even  the  critical  American  cousin  is  now  beginning  to 
forsake  Paris,  and  to  find  out  the  real  superiority  of  London 
shops.  See  how  he — she,  I  mean — helps,  in  her  numbers,  to 
swell  the  shop-gazing  crowds  in  Oxford  Circus.  Tramping 
from  Bloomsbury  boarding-houses, — or,  more  aristocratic,  from 
Northumberland  Avenue  hotels, — the  Americans  have  dis- 
covered, and  are  in  a  fair  way  to  dominate,  London ;  the 
London,  that  is,  of  July  and  August. 

"The  English,"  said  a  celebrated  Frenchman  once  unkindly, 


300  A  SHOPPING  LIST  CHAP. 

• 

"are  a  nation  of  shopkeepers."  However  that  may  be,  it  is 
certain  that  we  are  nothing  if  not  business-like.  Evidently, 
the  love  of  bargaining  is  inherent  in  the  soul  of  the  average 
British  female  who  comes  up  from  the  suburbs  for  a  day's 
shopping.  She  has  a  long,  neatly-written  list  of  her  wants 
and  necessities,  generally  pinned  to  some  part  of  her  person, 
a  list  with  startling  variations  of  subject,  thus :  "  Baby's  food- 
warmer,  Tom's  cricket-bat,  lay-figure  for  Sylvia,  beetle-trap  for 
the  kitchen,  Efifie's  long  Suede  gloves,  registry  office  for  new 
cook,  dentist,  evening  wrap,  chiffon  boa,  something  neat  in  the 
blouse  line  for  Mamie,  Aunt  Maria's  birthday."  Poor  woman  ! 
That  "  something  neat  in  the  blouse  line "  takes  her  nearly 
forty  minutes  in  the  finding;  and  "Aunt  Maria's  birthday" 
walks  sadly  into  the  hour  for  lunch,  already  attenuated. 
Several  shops,  alas  !  have  been  ransacked  vainly,  and  the  horrid 
"  Sign  'ere,  Miss  ! "  that  so  cruelly  stigmatizes,  in  certain  cheap 
shops,  the  recalcitrant  buyer,  has  more  than  once  mortified  the 
poor  lady's  sensitive  ears.  "  Mamie,"  who  is  assisting  at' the 
martyrdom,  gets  quite  cross  over  Aunt  Maria;  she  succeeds, 
however,  in  detaching  herself  from  her  inconvenient  parent,  and 
appears,  for  her  part,  to  be  preferring  the  claims  of  a  prote'ge  of 
her  own,  a  personage  who  is  very  particular,  apparently,  about 
his  special  brand  of  ties.  Finally,  Aunt  Maria's  natal  day  is 
checked  off  by  the  purchase  of  an  aggressive  china  pug,  large 
as  life,  with  staring  eyes,  which,  for  some  occult  reason,  is 
supposed  to  be  "  the  very  thing  "  for  that  lady. 

What  are  the  special  qualities  that  constitute  "a  good 
shopper  "  ?  They  would  appear  to  be  as  follows  :  endurance, 
patience,  strength,  coolness,  self-control,  amiability,  mental 
arithmetic,  and,  lastly,  an  eye  to  a  bargain.  All  these  cardinal 
virtues  are,  for  the  average  shopper,  considered  as  generally 
necessary  to  salvation  :  but  yet  there  are  other  qualifications. 
For  instance,  the  intense  delight  that  most  women  (and  a  few 
men)  feel  in  obtaining  an  article  at  if.  nf^.,  that  has  once 
been  marked  with  the  magic  $s.  6\d.,  is  of  distinct  value  in 


xin  POPULAR  "LINES"  301 

this  connection.  How  many  women  have  delightedly  bought 
a  thing  that  is  not  of  the  slightest  value  to  themselves  or  to 
any  one  else,  simply  because  it  is  thus  reduced  in  price  ! 
Hence  the  supreme  advantage  of  sales — but  that  is  another 
story. 

Caveat  Emptor !  It  is  the  object  of  the  seller  merely  to 
sell ;  and  in  his  behalf  it  may  be  urged,  that  there  is  no 
gauging  the  absurd  vagaries  of  the  public  taste.  I  may  add, 
with  reference  to  "  Aunt  Maria's  "  china  pug,  that  some  shops 
(arguing,  no  doubt,  from  the  oddly  imitative  ways  of  shoppers 
and  their  docile,  sheep-like  way  of  following  one  another's  lead), 
have  taken  to  the  inauguration  of  strange  fashions.  Lately  a 
well-known  West  End  emporium  started  that  blue  cat  with  pink 
eyes,  wearing  a  yellow  riband,  tied  in  an  enormous  bow  round 
its  neck.  It  was  an  aesthetic,  Burne-Jonesian  cat ;  indeed,  it 
was  hardly  like  a  cat  at  all ;  but,  nevertheless,  it  sat  in  rows 
in  that  shop-window,  and  the  line  (I  believe  such  things  are 
called  "  lines  ")  "  took,"  and  forthwith  no  home  was  complete 
without  a  cat.  Then  some  enterprising  Tottenham  Court 
Road  firm  evolved  the  idea  that  a  life-sized  negro,  dressed  in 
the  latest  fashion,  and  sprawling  in  a  cane  chair  with  a 
cigarette,  was  the  "very  thing"  for  the  vestibule.  Personally, 
I  should  have  preferred  the  chair  empty,  so  that  one  could  have 
sat  in  it  one's  self;  the  negro,  however,  enjoyed  wide  popularity. 
Then  a  little,  muzzled,  foolish-looking  china  puppy  became  the 
Regent  Street  rage,  and  was  forthwith  attached  as  an  ornament 
to  every  suburban  house-door.  Whose  is  the  great  mind 
who  set  these  fashions,  before  whom  every  householder  bows  ? 
It  would  be  interesting  to  know. 

There  is  great  opportunity  for  the  ever-interesting  study  of 
human  nature,  in  observing  the  ways  of  shops  and  shoppers. 
The  really  able  shopman  or  saleswoman  can  make  you  buy 
just  anything  he  or  she  wishes ;  it  is  a  mere  question  of  degree 
in  artistic  persuasion.  Indeed  I  have  often  almost  wept  with 
sheer  pain  to  see  some  graceful,  fairy-like  shop-damsel  (chosen 


302  BEHIND  THE  SCENES  CHAP. 

mainly,  be  it  remarked,  for  her  figure),  throw  some  elegant 
wrap  on  to  her  slim  shoulders,  and  turning  to  a  fat,  middle- 
aged  matron,  say  smilingly,  "Just  the  very  thing  for  you, 
ma'am ! "  And  the  deluded  matron  will  buy  the  wrap,  not 
even  suspecting  the  pitiful  ludicrousness  of  the  situation. 
Truly,  few  people  have  a  sense  of  humour.  A  friend  of  mine, 
who  delights  in  new  experiences,  and  enjoys  seeing  into  the 
"  highways  and  byways  "  of  London  life,  once  prevailed  on  a 
fashionable  West  End  milliner,  with  whom  she  was  well 
acquainted,  to  let  her  play  the  part  of  saleswoman  for  just  one 
day.  The  results  were  afflicting  to  all  concerned.  The  poor 
postulant  nearly  died  of  fatigue ;  every  one's  tempers  were 
strained  to  the  utmost ;  and  several  excellent  customers  were 
turned  away.  It  was  Kate  Nickleby,  Madam  Mantalini,  and 
Miss  Knag,  over  again ;  especially  Miss  Knag.  I  learnt 
that,  even  before  the  arrival  of  the  customers,  a  good  day's 
work  had  to  be  "  put  in,"  in  the  decking  and  re-arranging  of 
the  shop-window.  Every  single  hat  and  bonnet  had  to  be 
taken  from  the  stand,  and  carefully  dusted,  brushed,  smartened 
up  and  replaced.  And  woe  to  the  saleswoman  who  failed  to  effect 
a  sale,  more  especially  if  that  saleswoman  happened  to  be 
unfortunate  for  two  or  three  times  in  succession  !  My  friend,  after 
her  sad  experience  of  customers'  ways,  vowed  ever  to  make  it 
a  point  of  religion  to  spend  no  more  than  ten  minutes  in  the 
choosing  of  a  hat,  and  always  to  end  by  buying  it. 

Nevertheless,  so  far  as  the  big,  well-managed  shops  are 
concerned,  the  employe's  are  not  really  deserving  of  pity ; 
they  have  good  food  and  lodging,  with  comparatively  short 
hours,  and  the  situations  they  fill  are,  as  a  rule,  much  sought 
after.  It  is,  rather,  the  owners  of  the  smaller  establishments, 
in  the  poorer  districts,  who  "sweat"  their  unfortunate  shop- 
girls. Here  the  poor  white  slaves  are  often  kept  hard  at  work 
from  8  a.m.  to  8  p.m.,  and  on  Saturday  nights  till  12,  with 
short  intervals  for  hurried  and  indifferent  meals.  Of  course, 
it  is  the  working  classes  themselves  who  are  the  cause  of  this 


xin  SHOP-GIRLS  303 

"  sweating  "  ;  these  do  their  shopping  late,  on  Saturday  nights 
especially  late ;  and  shops,  if  they  closed  early  in  poor  districts, 
would  for  this  reason  lose  the  greater  part  of  their  custom. 

The  shop-girl  in  a  really  good  West  End  establishment  is  in 
very  different  case.  She  is  often  more  or  less  gently  bred, 
such  breeding  being  an  important  factor  in  her  engagement. 
Very  often,  indeed,  her  superior  manners  contrast,  oddly 
enough,  with  the  rudeness  of  the  "  lady  "  whom  she  happens 
to  be  serving. 

Shop-girls  and  shop-men  are  always  popular  elements  of 
London  life.  There  was,  quite  lately,  a  comic  opera  written  in 
the  shop-girl's  honour.  And,  so  far  as  shop-men  are  concerned, 
it  is  an  eloquent  fact  that  in  the  recent  revival  of  the  Gilbeit- 
and-Sullivan  opera  Patience,  the  only  noteworthy  alterations 
in  the  text  were  the  substitution  of  the  "  Twopenny  Tube 
young  man  "  for  the  "  Threepenny  'Bus  young  man,"  and  of 
the  words  "  Tottenham  House  "  for  the  departed  "  Waterloo 
House."  For  a  London  audience  must,  above  all  things,  be 
kept  up  to  date,  and  a  small  anachronism  of  the  latter  kind,  a 
mistake  about  the  shops,  would  be  noticed  by  them  much 
sooner  than  a  more  important  one. 

Everything  can  be  got  in  London,  if  (and  the  "  if"  is  a  com- 
prehensive one)  you  know  where  to  go  for  it.  Old  timber,  for 
instance,  can  be  bought  not  only  at  the  Westminster  wharves, 
but  also  in  the  Euston  Road  (where  Messrs.  Maple's  vast 
timber-yards  are  in  themselves  an  insight  into  the  "  highways 
and  byways  "  of  London) ;  old  silver  may  be  had  in  the  now 
spoiled  Hanway  Street,  and  Holborn ;  old  furniture  and 
antiques  in  Wardour  Street  and  its  neighbourhood ;  new 
furniture  in  Tottenham  Court  Road  ;  live-stock  in  and  about 
Seven  Dials  ;  artists'  materials  in  Soho,  and  so  on  ....  The 
best  stationers'  shops  are  in  the  City ;  the  City  shops,  however, 
make  a  "speciality"  of  solid  worth  rather  than  of  outside 
attractiveness,  a  quality  in  which  the  Regent  Street  and  Oxford 
Street  marts  bear  the  palm.  It  is  not  really  of  much  importance 


304 


DANGEROUS  GROUND 


CHAP. 


where  you  shop  ;  it  is,  however,  important  to  remember  that, 
unless  your  money  happens  to  be  more  valuable  than  your  time, 
you  had  better  not  frequent  cheap  marts  or  crowded  stores. 


The  Dog  Fancier  !  !  ! 


Book-shops  are  very  inadequate  in  London  ;  so  few  are  they 
indeed,  that  one  is  tempted  to  wonder  what  the  "  five  millions, 


xin  SECOND-HAND  BOOK-SHOPS  305 

in  the  richest  city  in  the  world "  read  ?  In  most  foreign 
towns  book-shops  are  to  be  found,  in  twos  and  threes,  in 
every  important  street ;  in  English  provincial  towns,  if  you 
want  a  book,  you  are  usually  directed  to  "  a  stationer's  "  ;  and 
even  in  London,  book-shops  must  diligently  be  sought  for, 
though,  when  found,  they  are,  it  must  be  confessed,  usually 
very  good. 

Second-hand  book-shops  are  more  plentiful  than  new  book- 
shops ;  and  these  are  mostly  strangely  dark,  dingy,  and  rambling 
places,  where  the  depressed  proprietor  rarely  seems  to  wish  to 
part  with  any  of  his  dusty  stock-in-trade,  but  sits  apart  in  dusky 
recesses,  moody  and  abstracted  like  Eugene  Aram,  annotating 
a  catalogue.  He  is  the  unique  tradesman  who  does  not 
appear  to  want  to  sell  his  goods.  After  he  has  got  over  his 
annoyance  at  being  disturbed, — and  if  you  do  happen  to  come 
to  terms  with  him, — he  will,  as  likely  as  not,  heave  a  deep  sigh 
as  he  turns  to  search  for  some  very  second-hand  sheets  of 
brown  paper  to  enwrap  the  second-hand  treasure.  These  old 
book-shops,  with  their  outlying  "twopenny"  and  "  fourpenny  :' 
boxes,  are  generally  to  be  found  on  busy  city  thoroughfares,  as 
if  by  intent  to  entrap  the  unwary  and  impecunious  scholar  on 
his  way  home  from  his  office  desk  to  his  little  suburban 
home.  In  such  spiders'  webs  of  temptation  he  has  been 
known  to  spend,  in  one  fatal  half-hour,  all  the  money  destined 
for  the  butcher's  bill,  or  for  the  gas  rate  ! 

But,  while  impoverished  scholars  have  a  weakness  for  second- 
hand literature,  the  big  circulating  libraries,  on  the  other  hand, 
are  the  great  weakness  of  their  wives  and  daughters,  cousins 
and  aunts.  About  these  vast  emporiums  ladies  of  all  ages  flit 
all  day  like  bees  around  a  h'ive.  Ladies  would  appear  but  seldom 
to  buy  books ;  they  always  hire.  A  morning  spent  at  Smith's 
or  Mudie's  is  curiously  instructive  as  to  the  methods  pursued 
by  them  in  the  search  for  light  literature.  The  library  counters 
then  usually  exhibit  a  double  or  treble  row  of  women,  with 
a  very  faint  sprinkling  of  elderly  men,  all  waiting,  in  varying 

x 


In  the  Charing  Cross  Road. 


CH.  xin  MUDIE'S  307 

degrees  of  patience,  for  their  turn.  Several  of  the  ladies  have 
considerately  brought  pet  dogs,  which  they  hold  by  the  chain, 
the  dear  little  animals  being  meanwhile  thoughtfully  engaged 
in  entangling  themselves  round  all  the  other  customers'  legs. 

"  Have  you  some  nice,  new,  good  novels  ? "  asks  a  plain- 
tive materfamilias,  with  a  stolid-faced  bevy  of  half-grown  up 
daughters  behind  her,  just  out  of  the  schoolroom.  "  Something, 
you  know,  that  is  quite  fit  for  young  girls ;  no  problems,  or 
pasts,  or  anything  of  that  kind." 

The  young  man  looks  nonplussed.  "  We  have  Miss  Yonge's 
latest,"  he  suggests;  "or  Maeterlinck's  Life  of  the  Bee,  just 
out—" 

"  Oh  !  Maeterlinck  is  so  very  Maeterlincky,  you  know.  And 
do  you  think  that  he's  always  quite  safe  ?  " 

"I  assure  you,  madam,  you  will  find  him  so  in  this 
instance,"  urges  the  young  man. 

"Well,  bees  are,  of  course,  interesting;  and  very  nice  and 
proper  too,  I'm  sure  ;  but  I  myself  prefer  the  lives  of  celebrated 
people.  Mr.  Gladstone's  Life,  for  instance  ?  Oh,  it's  not  written 
yet,  is  it  ?  What  a  bore  !  Well,  I  suppose  it's  no  use  our 
waiting.  .  .  .And  Miss  Yonge,  no,  thank  you.  .  .  .You  see, 
she  died  last  year,  and  then  sheV  so  very  Early-Victorian  !  " 

The  man,  seeing  that  it  is  to  be  a  long  business,  gives  up 
the  problem  for  the  moment,  and  moves  in  despair  to  the  next 
customer. 

Now  it  is  the  turn  of  a  little  old  lady,  with  a  deprecating 
manner :  "  I  want  something  nice,  and  not  too  clever,"  she 
murmured:  "something  I  can.  "knit  over,  you  know,  after 
breakfast.  No,  not  religious,  I  somehow  find  that's  too  depress- 
ing. How  would  this  do  ?  "  as  she  picked  up  a  volume  that 
was  flaunting  itself  on  the  counter,  "  Sir  Richard  Calmady.  I 
think  I'd  like  that,— if  it's  at  all  like  Sir  George  Tressady" 

"  No,  madam,  not  at  all  the  sort  of  thing  for  you,"  the  young 
man  hastened  to  say  with  an  air  of  authority.  "  Allow  me : 
Try  this ;  this  is  a  very  safe  book,  Miss  Edna  Lyall's  latest, 

X    2 


3o8  A  LITERARY  CENSOR  CHAP. 

In  Spite  of  All.  This  (confidentially)  is  an  author  we  always 
recommend." 

Now  there  bustled  up  a  young-old  lady  with  fuzzy  hair  and 
a  sailor  hat :  "I  want  all  the  most  go-ahead  novels  you  have," 
she  cried  :  "  somethin'  really  startling,  somethin'  that'll  keep 
you  a\vake  and  excited  all  through." 

This  lady  being  fortunately  in  a  hurry,  was  quickly  got  rid 
of  with  a  judicious  mixture  of  Hall  Caine,  Guy  Boothby,  and 
Marie  Corelli,  in  equal  quantities. 

Finally  there  came  a  nondescript,  pudding-faced  young  woman, 
who  said,  vaguely,  as  if  fulfilling  a  painful  duty  :  "  I  want  a  novel. 
What  is  being  read  now  ?  "  She,  however,  proved  very  amen- 
able, and  went  off  dutifully  with  Elizabeths  Visits,  The  Love- 
letters  of  Anonyma,  and  the  Transvaal  War. 

What  vast  knowledge  of  human  nature  must,  one  thinks, 
these  young  men  at  the  libraries  possess  !  They  seem  to  enact 
the  part  of  general  literary  adviser  to  the  enormous  feminine 
public.  They  know  their  types  well,  too  :  they  rarely  mistake. 
They  may  almost  be  said  to  form  the  minds  of  their  customers  ; 
and  they  may,  they  possibly  do,  rule  over  a  large  proportion  of 
human  opinion. 

Ladies,  as  I  said,  seldom  buy  new  books;  they  seem  to 
prefer  reading  novels  that  others  have  well  thumbed.  New 
book-shops,  therefore,  are  few  and  far  between ;  they  mostly 
congregate  abcut  St.  Paul's,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
what  used  to  be  Holy  well  Street ;  for  trades  in  London,  as  is 
well  known,  tend  to  have  their  own  special  districts.  In  the 
poorer  quarters,  however,  and  in  the  near  suburbs,  everything 
is,  on  the  contrary,  placed  in  the  queerest  juxtaposition ;  thus, 
you  may  see  a  house  labelled  "  Embalming  done  here,"  between 
two  others  respectively  inscribed  :  "  Hot  Dinners  served  here," 
and  "  Cheap  Mangling  done ; "  while  the  big  shopping  palaces 
in  Westbourne  Grove  and  elsewhere  advertise  themselves, 
modestly,  to  provide  everything,  from  a  coffin  to  a  hired  guest. 
Some  of  our  shops  and  ways  must  indeed  puzzle  the  unsophis- 


xin  SHOP-LIFTERS  309 

ticated  foreigner.  Mr.  Samuel  Butler  has  told  an  amusing 
story  of  how  a  poor  Ticinese  peasant  woman  was  one  day 
found  on  her  knees  in  prayer  before  an  elaborate  dentist's 
"  show  case  "  in  Soho,— imagining  it,  doubtless,  to  contain  the 
relics  of  a  saint  ! 

Shops,  in  some  of  the  poor  districts,  afford  remarkable 
insight  into  cockney  character.  There  is,  for  instance,  the 
old  plant-hawker  who  sells  you  rotten  roots  with  a  sweet  smile ; 
there  is  the  no  less  charming  bird-fancier  who  gets  rid  of  a 
songless  hen-canary  at  the  modest  price  of  io/-,  assuring  you, 
meanwhile,  that  "  no  better  singer  ever  lived  "  ;  there  is  the 
lady-greengrocer  who  lets  you  have  plums  at  a  penny  a  pound 
dearer  than  the  market-price — "  though  it's  a  robbin'  me  and 
my  poor  innercent  childern,  that's  what  it  is  !  " 

It  is  not,  however,  always  the  shopman  whose  ways  are 
most  open  to  criticism.  For,  not  only  in  the  poorer  districts, 
customers  exist  whose  ideas  of  integrity  are  not  of  the  finest. 
In  Somers,  Camden,  or  Kentish  Towns,  where  the  trader  must. 
of  necessity  and  from  custom,  spread  out  his  goods  in  the 
street,  to  catch  the  eye,  on  projecting  booths,  that  articles 
should  occasionally  be  missed  is,  perhaps,  hardly  wonderful ; 
and  yet,  curiously  enough,  it  is  rather  in  the  big  West  End 
emporiums  that  shop-lifting  is  most  common.  Sales  especially 
are  most  dangerous  in  this  respect.  Managers,  notably  of  big 
drapery  emporiums,  say  that  they  expect  to  lose  a  certain 
percentage  regularly  in  this  way  ;  it  is  regarded  as  part  of  the 
business. 

"  Oh,  no  !  we  don't  prosecute  now,"  a  pleasant  shop-walker 
said  in  answer  to  my  inquiries  on  the  subject  :  "  It  is  too 
risky  altogether;  the  thing  isn't  worth  it.  And  we  lost  ^"500, 
one  year,  by  getting  hold  of  the  wrong  person  .  .  .  it's  so  easy 
to  mistake,  in  the  crowd.  No,  we  just  place  detectives  here 
and  there,  where  the  biggest  crushes  are  .  .  .  they  are  dressed 
like  ordinary  customers,  and  carry  parcels ;  so  that  no  one 
could  discover  their  business.  .  .  Then,  if  a  detective  happens 


310  KLEPTOMANIA  CHAP. 

to  see  a  suspicious-looking  individual,  he  marks  her  or  him  — 
(it  is  generally  her),  and  follows,  from  one  counter  to  another, 
to  see  if  he  is  right.  He  doesn't  speak  until  he  is  perfectly 
sure ;  but,  when  he  is,  he  just  goes  up  to  the  person  and  says 
politely,  '  Please,  would  you  kindly  follow  me  for  a  moment 
into  the  office  ?  '  Once  in  the  office,  the  shop-lifter  is  made  very 
quietly  to  disgorge.  .  .  It's  nearly  always  a  lady — very  well  con- 
nected some  of  them  are,  too.  .  .  She's  never  one  of  our  reg'lar 
customers — sale-folks  seem  a  kind  of  class  by  themselves,  and 
we  see  nothing  of  them  from  one  sale-day  to  another.  Some 
of  them  make  hay  then,  and  no  mistake.  .  .  Why,  madam," 
said  the  shop-walker,  warming  to  his  narrative,  "  why,  I've  seen 
ladies  go  into  that  office,  quite  stout  persons,  and  come  out 
of  it  so  thin,  you'd  hardly  know  'em  again.  .  .  They  just  wear 
cloaks  with  deep  inside  pockets  all  round." 

"  And  don't  they  ever  object,  or  make  a  commotion  in  the 
shop  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No,  they  go  as  quiet  as  lambs  mostly.  .  .  and  other 
customers  don't  notice  anything.  .  .  .  You  see,  they  know 
there's  no  help  for  'em,  no  use  for  'em  to  brazen  it  out,  lined  with 
silks,  and  laces  and  stuffs  as  they  are.  Afterwards,  we  just  warn 
'em  kindly,  and  let  'em  go.  They  rarely  do  it  twice  in  the 
same  shop." 

"  What  sort  of  things  do  they  generally  take  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Why,  lace,  and  bits  o'  ribbon,  put  up  in  odd  lots  for  sale, 
things  lying  about  loose  on  the  counter,  like  they  are  at  sale 
times.  Well-dressed  they  are,  too,  you  wouldn't  think  they 
could  want  'em  badly.  '  Oh,  it  must  'a  got  up  my  sleeve,'  some 
of  'em  say,  looking  most  innocent,  with  perhaps  two  or  three 
yards  of  brocade  or  surah  hangin'  out  of  their  golf-capes.  .  .  . 
They've  got  a  kind  of  a  fancy,  as  well,  for  religious  books  :  no 
knowing  why,  for  religion,"  added  the  shop-walker  thoughtfully, 
"  has  evidently  done  them  no  good." 

With  which  reflection  I  cordially  agreed. 

Sales,    however   tempting,    should   be  avoided    by  the  un- 


xni  SALE  DAYS  311 

wary  shopper,  for  they  are  dangerous  as  spiders'  webs.  They 
usually  occur  twice  a  year,  in  January  and  July  ;  in  January, 
they  relieve  the  tedium  of  the  winter  fogs  ;  in  July,  they  are  a 
very  midsummer  madness.  The  sales  vary  in  honesty.  Some 
of  them  are  really  held  in  order  to  clear  out,  at  a  sacrifice,  the 
"old  stock";  some,  especially  in  the  smaller  shops,  are  simply 
quick  sales  of  "  cheap  lines,"  bought  in  on  purpose,  and  strewn 
about  heterogeneously  on  the  counters.  Sale  days  are  truly 
terrible  experiences  to  the  uninitiated.  If  you  happened,  un- 
wittingly, to  go  to  some  familiar  shop  on  one  of  these  yearly 
occasions,  the  mass  of  crowded,  struggling,  gasping  humanity, 
nearly  all  pushing,  and  nearly  all  fat,  would  lead  you  to  imagine 
that  life  and  death,  at  least,  were  intimately  concerned  in  the 
tussle,  instead  of  merely  the  question  of  securing  the  "  first 
choice  "  of  "  Remnants." 

The  shopping,  however,  of  the  rich  is  one  thing,  and  the 
shopping  of  the  very  poor  is  quite  another.  Most  interesting, 
to  those  who  care  to  study  the  book  of  human  nature,  are  the 
"  street-markets  "  of  the  people,  those  rows  of  noisy  booths  and 
barrows  which  have  stood  from  time  immemorial,  by  traditional 
right,  in  certain  streets,  and  where  jets  of  brilliant,  flaring  naptha- 
lights  display  the  kaleidoscopic  stock-in-trade.  Among  such 
streets  are  Goodge  Street,  Tottenham  Court  Road ;  Leather 
Lane,  Hoi  born  ;  or,  to  descend  to  a  yet  lower  social  depth,  Brick 
Lane,  Spitalfields.  Booths  and  barrows  are,  as  everybody  knows, 
not  allowed  to  obstruct  the  majority  of  streets,  being  generally 
limited  to  slums  or  wretched  paved  alleys  ;  here,  however,  the 
authorities  evidently  make  exceptions  in  favour  of  certain 
ancient  vested  rights.  In  Goodge  Street  fruit  and  vegetables  are 
mainly  sold  ;  in  Leather  Lane,  tools,  appliances,  pedlars'  wares, 
butchers'  meat ;  everything,  in  fact,  in  infinite  variety ;  in 
Spitalfields,  birds  and  live-stock,  together  with  old  clothes,  and 
second-hand  articles  generally.  In  such  street-markets,  from 
eight  to  ten  on  Saturday  night  is  the  gala  time  for  business.  M. 
Gabriel  Mourey  says  : 


312  STREET  MARKETS  CHAP. 

' '  These  streets  of  London,  where  the  poor  do  their  marketing,  are,  on 
Saturday  night,  gay  with  light  and  thronged  with  people.  Because  of  the 
next  day's  rest,  there  is,  until  past  midnight,  an  open  market,  which 
invades  the  pavement  with  costers'  barrows  heaped  with  fruit,  butchers' 
stalls,  booths  of  incongruous  articles,  kitchen  utensils,  old  tools,  all  the 
bric-a-brac  of  the  second-hand  suburban  shop  ;  vehicular  traffic  is  sus- 
pended ;  all  barriers  are  encroached  upon  ;  every  one  walks  in  the  middle  of 
the  street.  Dealers  and  brokers  offer  shoes,  clothing,  hats,  boots,  plates 
and  dishes,  all  at  ridiculous  prices." 

Curious,  indeed,  are  the  bits  of  life  and  character  that  are 
to  be  met  with  on  these  London  by-ways.  Not  changed  one 
whit  in  essentials  since  Dickens's  time,  they  recall  his  wonderful 
insight,  observation,  and  inimitable  cockney  touches.  There 
are  small  differences,  of  course ;  the  street  matrons,  for 
instance,  have  changed  their  former  floppy  caps  for  battered 
sailor  hats,  or  other  articles  of  damaged  head-gear ;  the  use  of 
their  nails,  as  an  offensive  weapon,  for  the  more  formidable 
"hat-pin."  The  traditional  dress  of  the  self-respecting 
feminine  street-dealer  is,  however,  still  as  sternly  conventional 
in  its  way  as  the  Mayfair  belle's.  At  the  present  day  it 
consists,  usually,  of  a  black  cloth  or  plush  jacket,  a  vividly 
red  or  blue  skirt,  a  large  white  apron,  a  black  hat  of  either  the 
"  feather "  or  "  sailor "  variety,  slovenly  boots  down  at  heel, 
and, — most  important  point  of  all — long  and  conspicuous  gold 
earrings.  Thus  attired,  the  lady  street-vendor  haggles  and 
chaffers  all  day  in  a  conscious  elegance  and  propriety.  The 
ladies  of  the  profession  generally  monopolize  the  itinerant 
greengrocery  trade ;  and  among  their  customers  you  may  still 
see  some  Mrs.  Prig,  carefully  selecting  a  juicy  "  cowcumber  " 
for  the  supper  of  her  "  friend  and  pardner,  Sairey  Gamp " ; 
while  yonder,  perhaps,  is  some  Mrs.  Tibbs,  or  Mrs.  Todgers, 
carefully  appraising  the  piece  of  steak  destined  for  the  dinner 
of  her  rapacious  boarders,  and  weighed  down  by  all  the  dis- 
tracting cares  of  paying  guests.  Near  by,  perhaps  Jo,  that 
poor  vagrant,  finger  in  mouth,  eyes  wistfully  a  juicy  plateful  of 
shellfish  that  the  "  winkle-barrow  "  man  has  just  got  ready  for 


XIII 


BARROW-SELLERS 


313 


a  customer.  Then,  maybe,  a  hansom  rattles  by  with  a  jaded 
diner-out,  yawning  from  a  sense  of  the  emptiness,  not  of  his 
stomach,  but  of  society  and  life,  and  you  recall  almost  uncon- 
sciously Molloy's  haunting  words  : 

"  Go  thy  way  !     Let  me  go  mine, 
I  to  starve,  and  thou  to  dine." 


Saturday  Night  Shopping. 

Let  us,  however,  hope  that  those  who  really  "  starve  "  are  few  in 
number.  For  the  barrow-men,  who  pay  small  rates  as  compared 
to  shop-owners,  give  good  value  in  return  for  their  money,  with 
much  homely  wit  and  caustic  joking  thrown  in;  and  poor,  indeed, 
must  be  the  household  that  cannot  enjoy,  on  Saturday  night, 


314  CAVEAT  EMPTOR  CHAP. 

their  something  "  'ot  with  innions,"  their  portion  of  fried  fish, 
or  of  sheeps'  trotters.  Of  course,  when  dealing  with  barrows, 
the  buyer  must  have  as  many  eyes  as  possible.  "  Let  the 
buyer  beware  "  may  be  specially  said  of  this  class  of  shopping. 
It  were  perhaps  too  much  to  expect,  as  Mr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  seems  to  suggest,  that  fruit,  when  you  buy  it,  should 
"  grow  bigger  dowmvards  through  the  box  "  ;  yet,  perhaps,  when 
you  see  a  pile  of  luscious  pears  or  apples  heaped  up  temptingly 
in  front  of  you,  you  need  not  allow  yourself  to  be  fobbed  off  with 
a  few  rotten  ones,  shovelled  up  carelessly  from  unseen  depths 
behind.  Much  art  is  necessary  when  dealing  with  a  barrow- 
man,  who,  as  often  as  not,  really  respects  the  careful  and 
fastidious  shopper,  and  retorts  to  her  complaints  with  a  good- 
natured  joke.  If  a  trifle  less  distant  in  manner  than  his  West- 
End  brother,  he  is  certainly  more  affectionate,  and  dubs  his 
customer  *•  my  dear."  But,  in  the  street  markets,  it  is  usually 
the  meat-huckster  who  is  the  greatest  "  character."  His  voice 
may  be  heard  above  the  general  din  :  "  Buy  my  pretty  meat," 
he  shouts  from  his  stall  to  the  red-armed  housewives ;  "  now, 
lydies,  don't  go  a  fingerin'  it  loo  much,  or  it'll  taste  er  kid  gloves 
when  you  go  to  eat  it.  ...  'Ave  that  there  sheep's  'ed,  Miss  ? 
wy,  certingly ;  that  wuz  a  'appy  sheep,  that  wuz  !  jest  look  at  the 
smile  'e's  got  on  'im  ;  know'd  you  wuz  a-goin'  to  buy  'im,  'e 
did.  .  .  .  There  now,  my  dear  !  look  wot  you've  been  and  done, 
rolled  that  there  bit  V  shin  in  the  mud,  it  '11  'ave  to  go  for 
cats'  meat  now,"  &c.  &c. 

This  kind  of  "patter,"  continued  ad  libitum,  seems  to  be 
regarded  as  the  slum  butcher's  special  metier. 

In  Brick  Lane,  Spitalfields, — not  the  Jewish  "  Ghetto,"  but 
the  purely  English  quarter, — there  is,  moreover,  a  Sunday 
morning  "  poor  man's  market."  It  is  usually,  in  more  select 
London  highways,  more  or  less  difficult  to  make  purchases,  be 
they  never  so  necessary,  on  Sunday  morning.  I  remember, 
indeed,  a  despairing  search  for  food  on  such  an  occasion  (food 
necessitated  by  the  arrival  of  unexpected  visitors),  which  ended 


xiii  BIRD-FANCIERS  315 

in  the  obtaining,  almost  by  force,  of  a  couple  of  boiled  chickens 
from  a  small  Italian  restaurant,  with  the  added  injunction  to 
"  keep  them  well  hidden "  from  the  eye  of  the  law  on  the 
homeward  journey.  In  the  East  End,  however,  it  is  very 
different.  Brick  Lane,  an  unsavoury  region,  described  by  the 
late  Mr.  Montagu  Williams  as  "  a  land  of  beer  and  blood," 
presents  on  Sunday  morning  a  strange  sight  to  the  uninitiated. 
Here  is  its  picture  by  an  eye-witness  : 

'*  In  Brick  Lane.  .  .  .  scenes  are  to  be  witnessed  on  Sunday  mornings 
which  afford  a  companion  picture  to  those  in  Whitechapel.  The  East 
End  English  have  also,  like  the  Jews,  their  'poor  man's  market,'  and 
where  Shoreditch,  Bethnal  Green  and  Spitalfields  meet  at  the  northern 
part  of  Brick  Lane,  which  is  in  Spitalfields,  the  poorest  and  meanest  of 
them  are  to  be  found.  In  the  early  part  of  Sunday  morning,  for  a  couple  of 
hours  or  so,  there  is  a  woman's  market  where  cast-off  clothes,  tawdry 
finery,  and  the  newest  things  in  hats  and  feathers  are  bartered.  Hetero- 
geneous heaps  of  clothing,  boots  and  shoes  included,  lie  spread  over  the 
ground,  and  some  amusing  scenes  are  to  be  witnessed.  Pass  along  Sclater 
Street  and  new  scenes  meet  the  eye.  The  women  are  left  behind,  and 
men  and  boys  are  met  with.  Instead  of  old  clothes  one  sees  and  hears 
twittering  birds.  Here  come  the  pigeon  fanciers  from  all  parts  of  Bethnal 
Green  and  Spitalfields  ;  birds  of  all  kinds  are  to  be  bought,  and  the  noise 
and  bustle  are  in  striking  contrast  to  the  subdued,  sorrow-stricken  tone  of 
the  women's  market.  It  does  not  require  any  long  acquaintance  •  with 
these  scenes  to  discover  that  the  men  are  fonder  of  their  birds  than  of  their 
wives.  Nowhere  is  bird-fancying  and  pigeon-breeding  more  general  than 
in  the  crowded  East  End.  Where  one  would  think  there  was  not  house- 
room  enough  or  food  enough  for  human  occupants,  prize  birds  of  great  value 
are  reared — most  probably  with  money  that  should  have  gone  to  feed 
and  clothe  the  children." 

The  special  markets  where  the  poor  buy  and  sell  are  not, 
however,  exactly  tempting  to  the  well-to-do,  unless  in  search 
of  "copy"  or  other  experience.  For  those  London  visitors 
who  do  not  appreciate  the  slums,  yet  whose  olfactory  organs  are 
not  too  fastidious,  the  big  London  markets,  Covent  Garden, 
Smithfield,  Billingsgate,  will  perhaps  afford  a  sufficient  experi- 
ence in  that  line.  Billingsgate  is  the  most  perilous  excur- 


316  BILLINGSGATE  CHAP. 

sion  of  the  three.  Its  aroma  is  strong  and  lasting,  and  the 
stranger  in  its  diverging  courts  and  alleys  runs  considerable 
danger  of  having  winkle-barrels  or  fish  crates  descend  on  his 
devoted  head,  as  they  are  lowered  from  the  wharves  on  to  their 
respective  carts.  Yes,  a  little  of  Billingsgate  will  undoubtedly 
go  a  very  long  way ;  yet  it  is  an  interesting  place  to  have  seen, 
and  the  strange,  sudden  appearance  of  ancient  churches, — St. 
Dunstan's,  St.  Magnus,  St.  Mary-at-Hill, — incongruously  calm 
amid  the  wild  turmoil  all  round  them, — gives  a  momentary  peace 
even  "  amid  the  City's  jar."  The  language  of  Billingsgate  fish- 
wives and  porters  is  proverbial,  yet  it  is  perhaps  hardly  worse 
than  in  many  other  less  fishy  quarters  of  London.  The  Coal 
Exchange,  opposite  Billingsgate,  has,  with  its  broad  flight  of 
steps,  on  which  people  sit,  itself  a  kind  of  ecclesiastical  look. 
The  fish  market  opens  at  five  in  the  morning. 

All  this  quarter  of  London  is  a  vast  hive  of  industry.  The 
stranger  should  walk  along  the  busy  thoroughfare  of  Upper 
and  Lower  Thames  Street  all  the  way  from  the  Tower  to  St. 
Paul's ;  tall,  blackened,  ever-devouring  warehouses  line  the 
street,  which  is  a  very  inferno  of  bustle  and  labour.  Though 
the  street  is  muddy  and  noisy,  and  its  perambulation  may  not 
impossibly  render  the  pedestrian  more  than  a  little  cross,  he 
will,  at  any  rate,  gain  from  it  some  insight  into  London  life. 
Mr.  Hare  describes  the  scene  well : 

"Thames  Street,"  he  says,  "is  the  very  centre  of  turmoil.  From  the 
huge  warehouses  along  the  sides,  with  their  chasm-like  wind6ws  and  the 
enormous  cranes  which  are  so  great  a  feature  of  this  part  of  the  City,  the 
rattling  of  the  chains  and  the  creaking  of  the  cords,  by  which  enormous 
packages  are  constantly  ascending  and  descending,  mingle  with  uproar  from 
the  roadway  beneath.  Here  the  hugest  waggons,  drawn  by  Titanic  dray 
horses,  and  attended  by.  waggoners  in  smock-frocks,  are  always  lading  or 
discharging  their  enormous  burthens  of  boxes,  barrels,  crates,  timber,  iron, 
or  cork." 

But,  though  a  visit  to  Billingsgate  is  only  faintly  suggested, 
and  the  delights  of  the  great  central  meat-market  of  Smithfield 


xiii  COVENT  GARDEN  317 

are,  it  is  fair  to  say,  only  capable  of  thorough  appreciation  by 
farmers  and  connoisseurs,  every  visitor  to  London  ought  to  be 
enjoined  to  go  and  see  Covent  Garden  Market,  and  preferably 
in  the  early  hours  of  the  spring  morning,  the  time  of  its  highest 
activity.  Not  only  interesting  at  the  present  day  as  a  special 
focus  of  London  life,  Covent  Garden  has,  also,  the  classic 
charm  of  history.  For  as  early  as  the  thirteenth  century  this 
was  the  "  convent  garden  "  of  Westminster,  supply  ing  its  monks 
with  fruit  and  vegetables.  That  the  course  of  centuries  and 
the  habit  of  cockneys  has  dropped  the  sacred  "n,"  and 
changed  the  name  into  "  Covent  Garden  "  is  easily  understood. 
Covent  Garden  is  still  faithful  to  its  fruit  and  vegetables, 
though  these,  alas !  are  no  longer  to  be  seen  growing  there, 
but  are  transported  thither  from  the  rich  gardens  of  England,  as 
well  as  from  colonies  and  nations  overseas.  Here,  within  this 
small  enclosure,  can  be  got,  it  is  said,  all  that  skill  can  grow, 
care  can  transport,  and  money  can  buy.  Here  can  be  obtained, 
at  any  time,  and  at  short  notice,  the  roses  of  a  Heliodorus,  or 
the  orchids  of  a  Vanderbilt ;  together  with  priceless  fruits  in 
mid-winter,  new  vegetables  in  February  frosts,  and  tropical 
produce  all  the  year  round.  The  middle  avenue  of  Covent 
Garden  is  expensive,  but  it  can  produce  anything  wished  for 
in  the  fruit  and  flower  line.  Riches  in  such  places  are  as  the 
magic  wand  of  an  Aladdin.  The  central  avenue  of  the  market 
is  refined  and  polite ;  outside  its  limits,  however,  the  manners 
of  the  locality  are  original  and  peculiar,  a  kind  of  "  law  unto 
themselves."  The  Covent  Garden  porters  and  market-women 
are  rough  diamonds ;  the  men,  especially,  full  of  good-natured 
horse-play,  seem  alarming  on  a  first  introduction,  but  harm- 
less when  you  are  used  to  them.  Yet  I  have  known  timid 
ladies  who  have  shrunk  from  a  walk  through  "  the  Garden," 
imagining  its  denizens  to  be  robbers  and  cut-throats,  or, 
at  least,  revolutionary  citizens  of  a  supposed  "  Reign  of 
Terror  ! " 

Covent    Garden    is    at    its    highest    glory  on    certain  May 


3i8  FLOWER-GIRLS          .  CHAP. 

mornings,  from  about  six  to  eight, — on  Tuesdays,  Thursdays 
and  Saturdays, — which  are  special  "  market  days."  On  these 
occasions  the  din  and  bustle  is  indescribable  ;  and  "  Mud-Salad 
Market,"  justifying  its  title,  becomes  a  green  sea  of  spring 
vegetables,  interspersed  with  still  greener  islands  of  laden, 
tottering  market  carts.  The  show  of  cut  flowers  is  a  wonderful 
sight,  and  street  hawkers,  flower-girls,  itinerant  flower-vendors 
and  plant-sellers,  are  one  and  all  busy  making  their  special 
"  bargains."  The  flower-girls,  untidy,  shawled  and  befeathered, 
sit  about  on  doorsteps  or  on  upturned  market  baskets  making 
their  "  button-holes  "  for  the  day,  and  scanning  anxiously  the 
weather ; — so  much  of  their  profit  depends  on  that !  They 
are  all  a  cheery,  though  somewhat  rowdy,  folk,  who  mean  no 
harm  by  their  very  outspoken  witticisms.  Even  their  rowdiness 
is  an  historic  legacy;  for,  in  past  days,  this  neighbourhood 
used  to  be  ravaged  by  the  redoubted  street  bullies  called 
"  Mohocks  "  or  "  Scourers,"  pests  of  an  older  time.  There  is 
a  well-known  print  of  Covent  Garden  Market,  from  Hogarth's 
picture,  Morning ;  the  print  shows  the  red,  barn-like  Church 
of  St.  Paul  dominating,  as  it  still  does,  the  market,  and  the 
old  taverns  near  to  it.  The  taverns  and  inns  of  Covent 
Garden  used  to  be  famous,  but  have  now  mostly  decayed,  like 
its  "  Piazza,"  or  Italian  colonnade,  little  of  which  is  now  left 
standing,  but  which  was  once  the  glory  of  the  town.  Thackeray, 
who  used  to  stay  at  the  "  Bedford,"  thus  describes  the  place  in 
his  day : 

"The  two  great  national  theatres  on  one  side,  a  churchyard  full  of 
mouldy  but  undying  celebrities  on  the  other  ;  a  fringe  of  houses  studded 
in  every  part  with  anecdote  or  history  ;  an  arcade,  often  more  gloomy 
and  deserted  than  a  cathedral  aisle  ;  a  rich  cluster  of  brown  old  taverns, 
one  of  them  filled  with  the  counterfeit  presentments  of  many  actors  long 
since  silent,  who  scowl  and  smile  once  more  from  the  canvas  upon  the 
grandsons  of  their  dead  admirers ;  a  something  in  the  air  which  breathes 
of  old  books,  old  painters,  and  old  authors  ;  a  place  beyond  all  other  places 
one  would  choose  in  which  to  hear  the  chimes  at  midnight,  a  crystal  palace 
— the  representative  of  the  present — which  presses  in  timidly  from  a  corner 


MUD-SALAD 


319 


upon  many  things  of  the  past ;  a  withered  bank  that  has  been  sucked  dry 
by  a  felonious  clerk,  a  squat  building  with  a  hundred  columns,  and  chapel- 
looking  fronts,  which  always  stands  knee-deep  in  baskets,  flowers,  and 
scattered  vegetables ;  a  common  centre  into  which  Nature  showers  her 
choicest  gifts,  and  where  the  kindly  fruits  of  the  earth  often  nearly  choke 
the  narrow  thoroughfares  ;  a  population  that  never  seems  to  slci/p,  and  that 
does  all  in  its  power  to  prevent  others  sleeping  ;  a  place  where  the  very 
latest  suppers  and  the  earliest  breakfasts  jostle  each  other  over  the 
footways." 

Fielding,  the  novelist,  devotes  in  Humphry  Clinker  a  page 
or  two  to  Covent  Garden  market,  which  he  supposes  to  be 
described  by  an  old  country  gentleman.  The  writer  complains 
of  its  dearness  and  dirt : 

"  It  must  be  owned,"  (he  says),  "that  Covent  Garden  affords  some  good 
fruit ;  which,  however,  is  always  engrossed  by  a  few  individuals  of  over- 
grown fortune,  at  an  exorbitant  price  ;  so  that  little  else  than  the  refuse  of 
the  market  falls  to  the  share  of  the  community  ;  and  that  is  distributed  by 
such  filthy  hands,  as  I  cannot  look  at  without  loathing." 

The  old  gentleman  also  goes  on  to  complain  of  the  nightly 
terrors  of  the  London  "  watchman,  bawling  the  hour  through 
every  street  and  thundering  at  every  door."  This  custom, 
fortunately  for  us,  is  now  in  abeyance ;  also  the  street  cries  of 
London  (at  least  in  its  more  polite  circles)  are  likewise  much 
diminished  in  intensity.  Even  the  muffin  man's  bell,  so  wel- 
come in  the  winter  afternoon's  gloom,  seems  now  more  seldom 
heard.  "  Sweet  Lavender,"  however,  still  has  a  familiar  autumn 
sound,  and  the  flower-hawkers  of  spring  are  still  discordant. 
Yet  one's  ears  are  no  longer  so  generally  deafened,  and  the  reason 
for  this  is  not  far  to  seek.  For  London  is  now  so  gay  with  ad- 
vertisements that  in  every  direction  our  eyes  meet  strange,  gaily- 
coloured  hoarding  and  sky  signs ;  and  the  manifold  attractions 
of  various  articles,  instead  of  being  cried  in  the  streets,  now 
cry  at  us  from  the  walls,  or  shout  discordantly  at  us  from  out 
of  the  blue  of  heaven,  from  ugly  black  wires  and  glaring  brazen 
letters.  We  cannot  go  out  of  doors  without  being  asked  a 


320  ADVERTISEMENTS  CHAP. 

hundred  times,  in  varying  type,  such  silly  questions  as  "  Why 
does  a  Woman  Look  Old  Sooner  than  a  Man  ?  "  "  Why  Let 
Your  Baby  Die  ?  "  "  Why  Pay  House  Rent  ?  "  or  other  such 
idiotic  queries.  Why,  who  would  pay  house  rent,  especially  in 
London,  if  he  or  she  could  help  it?  In  shops,  or  on  railways, 
it  is  the  same.  For  at  least  several  miles  out  of  London  you  travel 
in  the  constant  company  of  "  Pears's  Soap,"  and  "  Colman's 
Mustard ;  "  and  outside  eating-shops  you  see  in  large  letters  the 
cunning  legend,  "  Everything  as  Nice  as  Mother  Makes  it." 
The  Art  of  Advertisement  is  everywhere  paramount.  You 
cannot  even  travel  in  the  humble  omnibus  without  being 
implored  "  not  to  let  your  wife  worry  over  the  house-cleaning," 
and  being  asked  "  why  your  nose  gets  red  after  eating "  ; 
together  with  suggested  remedies  for  both  these  sad  states  of 
things.  These  are  really,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  im- 
pertinent personalities.  This  mania  for  posters  has,  of  course, 
largely  resulted  from  the  modern  spread  of  education  :  for  of 
what  use  to  ask  such  questions  in  old  days,  when  few  could  have 
succeeded  in  reading  them  ?  The  fashion  of  advertisements  is 
still  growing,  the  Americans  are  encouraging  it  to  preposterous 
proportions ;  and  we  shall  soon,  indeed,  live  in  a  mere  criss- 
cross of  lettered  wires,  not  unlike  Mr.  Wells's  idea  of  a  future 
Utopia. 

Yet  far  away  be  that  time  still  !  Although  the  threatening 
wires  already  faintly  line  the  blue  here  and  there  above  our 
city  gardens,  although  telephones  and  electric  connections 
necessitate  the  continual  dragging  up  of  our  streets,  London 
has  its  charm  still,  and  sweet  is  yet  the  London  summer  when 
the  square  lilacs  and  acacias  blossom,  and  when,  to  quote  Mr. 
Andrew  Lang,  "  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand  ! " 

' '  When  strawberry  pottles  are  common  and  cheap, 
Ere  elms  be  black,  or  limes  be  sere, 
When  midnight  dances  are  murdering  sleep, 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ! " 


XIII 


RESTAURANTS 


321 


(Though  T  fear  me  that  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  did  not  mean  it 
altogether  in  that  sense  !) 

The  London  children  love  flowers.  "  Give  me  a  flower, 
lydy,"  some  of  the  ragged  street  waifs  will  say,  as  you  come 
back,  laden  with  your  store,  from  Covent  Garden.  And  the 


An  Aerated  Bread  Shop. 

child  will  take  the  flower  lovingly,  and  stick  it  forthwith  into 
her  ragged  bodice,  smiling  like  a  conscious  princess. 

The  subject  of  shops  and  markets  would  lead  us  naturally 
to  that  of  restaurants.  These,  at  the  present  day,  are  many 
and  excellent.  While  the  more  ancient  taverns  of  Covent 

Y 


322  THE  ART  OF  DINING  CHAP. 

Garden  and  of  the  City  have  largely  lost  their  fashionable 
vogue,  the  general  improvement  in  restaurants  and  modem 
hotels  has  been  rapid.  In  the  last  twenty  years,  revolutions 
have  been  worked  in  this  respect.  Twenty  years  ago,  to  begin 
with  small  things,  a  cup  of  tea  at  a  confectioner's  cost  at  least 
sixpence,  and  was  not  always  easy  to  get ;  now,  it  is  obtainable 
for  two  or  three  pence  anywhere,  and  for  a  penny  at  cheap 
shops.  Everything  else  in  the  commissariat  has  improved  and 
cheapened  in  proportion.  Elegant  little  dinners  may  be  had 
now  at  all  prices;  from  the  famous  '"Savoy"  dinner  at  a 
guinea,  to  the  cheap  and  dainty  repast  "  in  the  Italian  style  " 
at  2S.  6d.  Of  this  latter  class  is  the  "  Comedy  "  Restaurant, 
Panton  Street,  in  a  small  and  hidden  by-way,  where  little 
dinners,  comprising  smart  waiters,  separate  tables,  candle-shades, 
and  table  decorations,  are  provided  for  the  modest  price  of 
half-a-crown  per  head.  Or  at  the  Holborn  Restaurant  Dinner, 
at  3-f.  6d.,  you  may,  if  so  inclined,  enjoy  the  strains  of  a  band, 
while  entertaining  your  pre-theatre  party.  Or,  if  you  be  rich, 
the  big  hall  of  the  new  and  expensive  "  Carlton  "  is  now  the 
most  modish  place  for  after-theatre  supper  parties.  Here  the 
parting  guest  is  politely  "  sped,"  if  he  linger,  by  lamps  discreetly 
and  suggestively  lowered  at  intervals.  .  .  .Ah,  what  a  delight- 
ful city  London  is  for  the  rich  to  live  in  !  Everything  may  be 
had  and  enjoyed  ! 

The  Art,  then,  even  the  Poetry,  of  Dining,  may  be  thoroughly 
studied  in  London  at  the  present  day.  Every  passing  mood 
may  be  consulted,  every  gastronomic  fancy  indulged.  You 
may  choose  your  company  as  you  choose  your  menu  ;  you  may 
make  a  free  selection  from  the  quality  of  either.  You  have 
but  to  know  exactly  beforehand  what  you  want.  If  the  lady 
whom  you  honour  be  frivolous  by  nature,  you  can  take  her  to 
the  smart  restaurant  of  the  Hotel  Bristol,  and  to  a  comedy 
adapted  "  from  the  French  " ;  if  she  be  serious,  to  the  "  Grand 
Hotel,"  and  then  to  Shakespeare  ;  if  crude,  to  Frascati's  and  to 
melodrama.  But,  whether  you  choose  expensive  dining  places 


xin  AND  THE  EXPENSE 


323 


or  cheap  ones,  and  in  whatever  manner  you  may  elect  to  spend 
your  long  London  day,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  at  its  close 
you  will  generally  find  yourself  to  have  spent  a  considerable 
sum.  For,  howe'er  improved  and  reformed,  in  essentials  the 
city  is  yet  not  much  changed  since  the  days  of  John  Lydgate, 
who  found,  he  says,  to  his  cost,  and  even  so  early  as'  the 
fifteenth  century  that : 

"  lacking  mony  I  mighte  not  spede." 


Y   2 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    GALLERIES,    MUSEUMS,    AND    COLLECTIONS 
"  Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room." 

"  The  great  city  has  an  unbroken  history  of  1,000  years,  and  has  never 
been  sacked  by  an  enemy." — Sir  Walter  Besant. 

"  Great  are  your  privileges.  For  you  is  collected  in  the  public  palaces  of 
London  all  that  human  genius  has  ever  achieved,  all  that  power  and  wealth 
can  procure.  For  you  has  been  dug  from  the  earth  all  that  remains  of 
mighty  empires  and  long-vanished  civilisations.  The  arts  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  and  Egypt  and  Assyria,  and  the  not  less  wonderful  arts  of  India,  are 
all  contributory  to  your  pleasures.  The  whole  art  and  mystery  of  painting 
is  unfolded  for  you  on  the  walls  of  our  National  Gallery.  .  .  .  You  are  rich 
indeed,  for  you  are  the  heirs  of  all  the  Ages. " 

ARE  picture-galleries,  museums,  and  such-like  treasures  of 
the  metropolis,  to  be  described  as  London's  Highways,  or  as 
its  Byways  ?  That  they  ought  to  be  the  former,  is  certain  ;  as 
certain  as  that  they  are  but  too  often  used  as  the  latter,  or  are, 
at  any  rate,  regarded  as  refuges  and  shelters  from  the  in- 
clemency of  the  outer  air.  For  Art,  like  Religion,  has  a 
tendency  in  this  respect,  to  serve  not  so  much  as  a  cloak,  as 
in  the  capacity  of  an  umbrella.  And  it  is  sometimes  con- 
veniently adapted  to  yet  other  profane  uses  :  "  This  'ere  ain't 
a  gymnasium,  nor  yet  a  refreshment  room,"  I  have  heard  a 
much-enduring  officer  of  the  law  remark,  more  in  sorrow  than 
in  anger,  to  a  too-presuming  visitor,  who,  seated  opposite  the 
Ansidei  Madonna,  was  placidly  feeding  such  of  her  offspring 


CHAP.   XIV 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY 


325 


as  were  not  engaged  in  playing  leap-frog  over  the  chairs,  with 
crumbly  bath-buns. 

These,  however,  are  varieties  in  the  human  species  that  are 
ever  with  us.  "  Fear  not  to  Sow  because  of  the  Birds,"  says  the 
Koran  ;  and  the  widespread  sowing  of  culture  has  so  far  shown 


A  Sketch  in   Trafnlgar  Square. 

results,  that  every  year  the  British  Museum,  the  National 
Gallery,  and  other  kindred  institutions,  are  growing  more 
popular  and  more  frequented.  In  Art  and  Knowledge,  as  in 
other  directions,  it  takes  time  for  "  the  People  "  to  appreciate 
fully  their  oldest,  much  less  their  newest,  heritage.  Such 


326  UNDISCOVERED  TREASURES  CHAP. 

treasures  in  our  vast  metropolis  are  still  too  much  hidden, 
still  undiscovered  by  the  majority.  Even  the  educated  visitor 
fresh  from  the  country  does  not  immediately  realise  the  fact 
that  he  is  free  at  any  time  to  walk  the  marble  halls  of  the 
National  Gallery,  to  hear  the  fountain  plashing  in  the  Pompeian 
hall  of  the  riverside  palace  raised  by  Sir  Henry  Tate  to  modern 
British  Art,  or  to  follow  the  strange  instincts  and  laws  of 
Nature  in  the  beautifully  arranged  Natural  History  Museum 
of  Kensington.  The  recent  movement  for  "  Sunday  opening," 
now  more  or  less  widespread,  has  tended  greatly  to  the  popu- 
larisation of  the  national  collections,  and  does  -a  good  deal, 
also,  to  the  mitigation  of  the  too  utter  gloom  of  the  stranger's 
"  Sunday  in  London."  Even  M.  Taine,  who  in  the  "  sixties  " 
compared  the  metropolis  of  his  day  to  "a  well-ordered 
cemetery,"  or  "a  large  manufactory  of  bone-black  closed  on 
account  of  a  death,"  would  surely  have  been  less  severely 
splenetic  had  but  a  museum  or  two  been  open  to  beguile  his 
tedium.  In  our  present  year  of  grace,  the  British  Museum, 
from  two  till  four,  is  thronged  by  the  lower  middle-class,  who, 
if  their  affection  for  mummies  is  a  trifle  out  of  proportion  to 
the  interest  they  take  in  the  Elgin  Marbles,  and  their  love  of 
historic  missals  is  sometimes  too  subordinate  to  the  intricacies 
of  the  neighbouring  World's  Unique  Stamp-Collection,  yet 
show  in  their  way  an  intelligent  and  praiseworthy  desire  for 
knowledge. 

These  treasure-houses  of  London, — what  wealth  do  they  not 
represent, — what  unimagined  riches  do  they  not  contain  ?  Lon- 
don, the  richest  city  in  the  world,  yet  for  so  long  a  period  far  be- 
hind other  capitals  in  representative  art,  has  in  the  last  century 
equalled,  if  not  surpassed  them  all.  Some  fifty  or  more  years  ago, 
thegreat  "  Pan-Opticon"  of  Leicester  Square,  the  precursor  of  the 
present  Biograph  and  Cinematograph,  was  the  chief  "  artistic  " 
glory  of  London.  In  the  days  of  our  grandfathers,  people  were 
for  ever  taken  to  see  this  (i  Pan-Opticon,"  a  great  building  with 
endless  galleries,  on  the  site  of  the  present  "  Alhambra  "  ;  where 


THE  USES  OF  MILLIONAIRES 


327 


you  saw  all  the  things  of  the  world  and  the  glory  thereof.  Now 
this  baby-show  is  superseded  by  museums  and  galleries  filled 
with  the  most  priceless  gems  of.  art  and  of  history  :  yes,  the 
London  collections  may  in  this  sense  be  regarded  as  variations 
of  the  Pan-Opticon — Pan-Opticons  of  a  nobler  kind.  London's 
National  Gallery  is  now  a  collection  of  pictures  worthy  of  so 
great  a  nation,  her  museums  are  filled  with  the  best  of  the 
spoils  of  ancient  Greek  art.  If  London  has  been  late  in  awaking 
to  her  artistic  responsibilities,  at  any  rate  she  takes  them  seriously 
enough  at  the  present  day.  And,  of  late  years,  her  art  treasure 
has  been  enormously  and  continuously  enriched,  not  only  by 
the  expenditure  of  public  moneys,  but  by  private  bequest  and 
private  munificence.  Rich  men,  with  true  patriotism,  have 
spent  their  lives  in  painfully  searching  for,  and  collecting, 
beautiful  things,  to  leave  them,  afterwards,  freely  to  the  nation. 
Millionaires,  too,  have,  it  would  seem,  their  uses.  And  we  are 
thus  all,  in  a  sense,  millionaires,  for  we  inherit  the  priceless 
treasures  of  others,  and  we  enjoy  the  fruits  of  their  lifelong  toil. 
It  is  in  London,  more  than  anywhere,  that  the  real  poetry  of 
living  may  be  enjoyed,  and  that  every  passing  artistic  whim 
may  be  indulged.  Does  your  mind  require  stimulating  by  the 
study  of  Greek  art  ?  the  galleries  of  the  British  Museum  are 
open  to  you  ;  or 

' '  Dost  thou  love  pictures  ?  we  will  fetch  thee  straight 
Adonis  painted  by  a  running  brook  ; 
Or  Cytherea,  'mid  the  sedges  hid, 
That  seem  to  move  and  wanton  with  her  breath." 

Or  do  you  feel  that  what  your  mood  needs  is  the  contempla- 
tion of  beautiful  eighteenth  century  French  furniture,  and 
Fragonard's  pictures  ?  Go  then,  to  Hertford  House  in  quiet 
Manchester  Square,  and  see  the  world-famed  Wallace  Collec- 
tion. The  "  Wallace  Collection,"  that  pearl  of  great  price,  of 
which  the  bequest  has  recently  so  convulsed  the  art  world,  is  the 
latest  expression  of  the  patriotism  of  wealth.  Collected  mainly 
by  the  third  Marquess  of  Hertford,— the  "Lord  Steyne"  of 


328  THE  WALLACE  COLLECTION  CHAP 

Thackeray's  novel, — and  his  successor  the  fourth  Marquess, 
Attache  at  the  Paris  Embassy, — the  treasure,  since  its  formation, 
has  met,  at  one  time  or  another,  with  strange  and  unique  adven- 
tures. In  Paris,  the  fourth  Marquess,  Richard  Seymour  Conway, 
built  for  his  collection  **  a  stately  pleasure  house/'  fitted  and 
designed  after  his  own  sumptuous  taste ;  living  meanwhile, 
his  wealth  no  doubt  crippled  by  his  vast  "  unearned  increment," 
not,  indeed,  as  a  miser,  but  in  a  degree  of  seclusion  that 
almost  amounted  to  eccentricity.  During  the  Commune,  the 
bulk  of  that  collection  that  we  now  admire  was  even,  it  is  said, 
buried  in  underground  cellars  for  safety.  The  beautiful 
French  furniture, — the  bric-a-brac,  blazing  with  enamels  and 
precious  stones, — one  can  well  imagine  these  the  constant  delight 
of  the  old  collector,  with  whom  the  love  for  such  things  had 
become  a  ruling  passion.  Yet,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  this  fourth 
Lord  Hertford  suffered  from  a  painful  disease,  a  continual 
affliction  which,  they  say,  only  the  news  of  victories  achieved 
in  sale  rooms,  by  his  agents,  over  some  rival  collector,  at  all 
tended  to  alleviate. 

Though  reproached  during  his  lifetime  as  an  "  absentee 
landlord,"  a  nobleman  who  preferred  residence  in  Paris  to  a 
home  in  his  native  land,  Lord  Hertford  has  certainly,  in  the 
upshot,  been  proved  to  have  deserved  as  well  as  any  man  of 
his  country.  Time's  revenges  are  slow,  but  they  are  effective ; 
and  the  fourth  Marquess,  the  flouted  foreign  resident,  has 
proved,  indirectly,  the  greatest  patriot  of  his  age.  ,But,  while 
the  old  nobleman's  sentiment  appears  to  have  been  mainly 
negative  (as  shown,  for  instance,  by  his  decision  that  the 
collection  should  not  enrich  the  Louvre),  it  was  really  Sir 
Richard  Wallace,  his  successor,  faithful  friend,  and  co-collector 
(some  say,  also  near  kinsman),  who  should  have  the  largest 
share  of  the  nation's  gratitude. 

Sir  Richard  Wallace,  Lord  Hertford's  sole  heir,  deciding, 
after  the  imminent  dangers  of  the  Commune,  that  it  was  rash 
to  leave  the  inheritance  thus  at  the  mercy  of  vandalism, 


xiv  HERTFORD  HOUSE  329 

removed  it,  in  1872,  to  London,  where,  for  three  years,  it 
filled  the  Bethnal  Green  Museum  ;  being  removed  to  Hertford 
House,  the  London  residence  of  the  family  (by  then  arranged 
to  receive  it),  in  1875.  Sir  Richard,  whose  only  son  had 
meanwhile  died,  left  in  his  turn  the  whole  of  the  property  to 
his  wife,  a  French  lady,  whose  loyalty  to  her  husband's  country 
should  cause  her  name,  for  all  time,  to  be  writ  large  on  the 
roll  of  honour.  Here,  in  Hertford  House,  a  few  years  after 
Sir  Richard's  death,  Lady  Wallace  died  ;  and,  in  accordance 
with  her  husband's  secret  wish,  bequeathed  the  whole  of  the 
immense  property  to  the  British  nation.  And  now,  for  future 
ages,  Hertford  House,  with  all  its  myriad  treasures,  a 
collection  perfect  as  it  stands,  fresh  from  the  arrangement 
and  taste  of  the  collector,  will  be  the  glorious  heritage  of  the 
nation. 

One  of  the  greatest  charms  of  Hertford  House  is  that  it 
suggests  none  of  the  red-tapeism,  or  of  the  dull  uniformity  of 
a  museum,  and,  consequently,  does  not  affect  visitors,  as  so 
many  museums  do,  with  a  primary  sense  of  fatigue  and 
boredom.  The  rooms  of  the  palatial  mansion  are  still 
arranged  mainly  as  they  were  in  the  owner's  time ;  the  long 
suites  of  reception  saloons,  through  which  the  reflected  sun- 
light glitters, — vistas  of  French  tapestries,  pictures,  lapis-lazuli, 
enamels,  and  Sevres  china, — convey  all  the  suggestion,  even  in 
prosaic  London,  of  a  fairy  palace.  Even  a  Countess  d'Aulnoy, 
with  her  wealth  of  imagery,  could  hardly  have  imagined  a  finer 
setting  for  her  Gracieuse  and  Percinet,  or  any  of  their  dainty 
royal  line.  There  is  an  intime  air,  almost  as  of  home,  even 
about  the  long  picture  gallery  where  the  Gainsboroughs  and 
Sir  Joshuas  smile  sedately  upon  us.  The  sweet  presentments  of 
fair  dead  ladies,  seen  here  in  their  proper  setting ;  the  Pompeian 
central  courtyard  and  plashing  fountain,  whence,  it  is  said,  the 
aged  Lady  Wallace  was  daily  to  be  seen,  leaning  from  the 
balcony  that  projects  from  the  upper  rooms,  to  feed  her  crowd 
of  birds,  eager  pensioners,  with  their  breakfast  of  crumbs ;  these 


330  LADY  LECTURERS  CHAP. 

combine  to  give  an  atmosphere  of  human  charm,  a  thing  quite 
apart  from  the  usual  cold  aloofness  of  museums.  It  is  again 
the  idea  of  the  Soane  Museum,  but  on  a  very  magnificent 
scale.  Beautiful  in  its  publicity,  how  mysteriously  lovely  must  it 
not  have  been  in  the  days  of  its  seclusion  !  One  can  almost 
share  the  feelings  of  that  old  retainer  who  said,  on  the  last  sad 
day  before  the  opening ;  "  Ah,  Sir  !  the  Wallace  Collection,  as 
it  was,  you  and  I  will  never  see  again — for  the  common  people 
are  going  to  be  let  in  !  " 

Londoners,  in  this  instance,  at  any  rate,  fully  appreciate  the 
magnificence  of  the  gift  made  them.  Hertford  House  is,  on 
fine  days,  usually  thronged  ;  all  classes  are  represented  there ; 
but  there  is  noticeably  more  of  the  "  smart  world  "  to  be  seen 
there,  than  is  usually  to  be  found  in  London  galleries.  The 
"  smart  world,"  as  distinguished  from  the  scholarly ;  but  the 
scholarly  world  is  to  be  met  there  too,  and  will  still  visit 
Hertford  House,  after  the  "  Good  Society  "  has  forsaken  it,  and 
betaken  itself  to  some  newer  haunt  of  fashion.  In  each  of 
London's  picture-galleries  and  museums,  its  special  clientele 
may  very  easily  be  detected ;  and,  at  any  rate,  that  of  Hertford 
House  is  certainly,  so  far,  the  best-dressed.  Among  the  crowd 
are  often  to  be  seen  groups  of  young  girls,  demurely  following 
in  the  wake  of  some  feminine  leader,  who  discourses  to  them 
about  the  pictures,  and  the  various  schools  of  painting, — a  thing, 
this,  that  surely  requires  some  courage  in  a  mixed  community. 
It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  visitor  is  often  sadly  in  need  of 
some  guide  :  "  Are  all  these  pictures  hand-painted  ?  "  I  have 
myself  heard  a  well-dressed  and  (presumably)  well-educated 
young  girl  say,  at  the  National  Gallery.  Perhaps  it  is  a  felt 
want,  for  one  never  knows  what  extra  "  following  "  one  may 
not,  unconsciously,  attract :  I  myself  once  saw  an  unhappy 
lady  lecturer,  carried  away  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  subject, 
turn  round  and  give  an  eloquent  peroration  and  summary  of 
it  to  a  policeman,  a  deaf  old  lady,  and  a  nursemaid  carrying  a 
vacant-looking  baby : 


xiv  PERIPATETIC  CLASSES  331 

"Now,"  said  the  lady  cheerfully,  "just  to  show  what  you 
have  learned,  tell  me,  in  your  own  words,  what  you  consider  to 
have  been  the  influence  of  Giotto  on  Early  Italian  Art  ?  " 

No  one  answered ;  but  the  vacant  baby,  apparently  thinking 
it  a  challenge,  wailed. 

And,  in  Hertford  House,  the  custom  lends  itself  to  additional 
dangers ;  for  peripatetic  classes  are  many,  and  in  the  nooks 
and  unexpected  corners  of  the  mansion,  it  is  fatally  easy  to 
lose  your  special  crowd  of  students  altogether,  and  to  attach 
yourself,  again  unconsciously,  to  some  one  else's  flock  ;  who, 
by  the  chilly  indifference  with  which  they  receive  your  well- 
intentioned  homilies,  soon  make  you  unpleasantly  aware  of 
your  mistake.  Like  "  Little  Bo-Peep,"  you  then  vainly  pursue 
your  wandering  sheep,  from  one  gallery  into  another,  feeling, 
perhaps,  that  the  pursuit  of  pupils,  as  of  Art,  has  its  draw- 
backs ;  and  that  tea,  in  the  shape  of  the  nearest  "  Aerated,"  is 
all  too  distant. 

The  "  sheep "  in  question  are,  however,  discovered  at  last, 
placidly  gloating  over  the  wonderful  collection  of  jewelled 
snuff-boxes — was  there  ever  such  a  marvellous  display  of 
miniatures  and  of  brilliants?  Truly,  the  eighteenth  century 
was  a  luxurious  age  !  .  .  .  Surely,  no  one  can  ever  have  dared 
to  sit  comfortably  on  those  priceless  chairs,  or  to  have  taken 
tea  out  of  a  Sevres  cup,  at  one  of  those  marvellously  inlaid, 
jewel-encrusted  tables  ? 

The  pictures,  however,  are  the  chief  delight  of  Hertford 
House.  It  is  easy  to  admire  porcelain,  armour,  bric-a-brac ; 
but  to  really  enjoy  it  in  the  best  sense,  one  must  be  more  or 
less  learned  in  the  cult ;  while  pictures,  though  their  full 
appreciation  implies  a  certain  amount  of  education,  are  better 
understanded  of  the  multitude.  But,  though  the  British  and 
foreign  schools  are  well  represented,  it  is  the  unrivalled 
collection  of  French  pictures  of  the  eighteenth  and  early 
nineteenth  centuries,  works  by  Watteau,  Lancret,  Fragonard, 
Greuze,  and  all  the  noted  painters  of  the  French  school,  that 


332  GREUZE'S  MASTERPIECES  CHAP. 

the  great  world,  primarily,  flock  to  see  at  Hertford  House. 
Twenty-one  pictures  by  Greuze  alone  will  delight  the  lovers  of 
that  painter's  work,  and  bring  their  minds  back  to  the  eternally- 
charming  affectations  of  that  eighteenth  century  in  which 
so  many  of  our  modern  poets  yearn  to  have  lived.  One  can 
imagine,  for  instance,  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  echoing  Campbell's 
lovely  lines  to  the  pretty,  typical  girl-face  that  Greuze  loved 
so  well : 

"  Transported  to  thy  time  I  seem, 

Though  dust  thy  coffin  covers — 
And  hear  the  songs,  in  fancy's  dream, 
Of  thy  devoted  lovers."  .... 

Here,  naive  as  always,  yet  never  quite  without  a  certain 
faint  meretriciousness  of  effect,  the  "  girl-child "  of  Greuze 
looks  down  on  the  visitor  in  every  costume  and  attitude. 

In  the  long  picture-gallery  that  forms  one  side  of  the  great 
quadrangle,  there  are  large  canvases  by  Reynolds,  Gains- 
borough, Romney,  Rembrandt,  Rubens,  Van  Hals,  Murillo, 
and  many  others.  Here  is  a  charming  picture  of  "  Miss  Bowles  " 
by  Reynolds,  —  the  little  girl  with  round  eyes,  cuddling  a  dog, 
so  long  familiar  to  us  by  engraving  or  print ;  and  here,  too,  is 
Frans  Hals's  Laughing  Cavalier,  whose  infectious  laugh  lingers 
so  long  in  the  memory. 

Sir  Richard  Wallace  offered  his  collection,  with  his  house, 
to  the  nation  before  his  death  :  the  Government,  however, 
after  the  usual  manner  of  Governments  in  such  matters,  raised 
objections ;  and  the  affair  subsided,  till  the  surprise  of  the 
widow's  legacy  came,  and  showed  the  long  and  serious 
intention  of  the  gift.  One  little  picture,  The  Peace  of 
Miinster,  by  Terburg,  a  small  historical  panel  of  untold  and 
unique  value,  was,  indeed,  given  by  Sir  Richard  to  the  National 
Gallery  before  his  death ;  yet  even  this  gift  had  a  narrow 
escape  of  being  rejected ;  for  the  would-be  donor,  unre- 
cognized, and  wearing  shabby  clothes,  was  ill  received  by  Sir 
William  Boxall,  the  then  Director,  and  was  all  but  sent  away 


xiv  THE  BRITISH  MUSEUM  333 

with  contumely,  with  his  picture,  till  he  made  it  and  himself 
known  : 

"  My  name  is  Wallace,"  said  the  stranger  quietly,  "  Sir  Richard 
Wallace  ;  and  I  came  to  offer  this  picture  to  the  National  Gallery."  "I 
nearly  fainted,"  said  Boxall  when  he  told  the  story.  .  .  .  "I  had  nearly 
refused  The  Peace  of  Miinster,  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world  !  " 

Nevertheless,  the  little  scene  is  in  its  way  truly  typical  of 
the  nation's  treatment  of  its  would-be  benefactors  ! 

The  story  of  the  foundation  of  the  British  Museum,  the 
classic  edifice  in  Bloomsbury  that  has  arisen  on  the  site  of  the 
old  historic  Montague  House,  is  not  unlike  that  of  Hertford 
House.  For,  the  first  beginnings  of  the  enormous  museum 
collections  originated  very  much  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
Hertford  Bequest.  Sir  Hans  Sloane,  the  Sir  Richard  Wallace 
of  his  day,  Chelsea  magnate,  physician,  naturalist,  and  philan- 
thropist, determined  his  large  library  collections  to  the  nation, 
offering  them  by  his  will,  at  a  fourth  of  their  estimated  value ; 
desiring,  like  Sir  Richard,  that,  if  possible,  the  collections 
should  remain  in  his  house,— Henry  VIII. 's  historic  Chelsea 
manor-house.  This  wish,  however,  was  not  in  his  case  carried 
out ;  the  ancient  building  was  demolished,  and,  in  its  stead, 
the  British  Museum  was  founded. 

At  the  British  Museum  the  lady-lecturer,  with  her  tribe  of 
earnest  students,  is  occasionally  also  to  be  met  with.  Here 
she  is  often  youthful  and  attractive,  and  is  generally  to  be  found, 
— strange  contrast  of  associations  ! — either  in  the  Mausoleum 
Room,  or  among  the  Elgin  Marbles :  her  little  band  of  eager 
pupils  scribbling  in  their  note-books  at  a  respectful  distance. 
Last  March  I  saw  a  charming,  Hypatia-like  lady,  tall  and  fair, 
gray-eyed  and  gray-robed,  holding  thus  her  little  court,  by  the 
lovely  figure  of  Demeter ;  I  would  fain  have  joined  myself  to 
the  small  gathering,  and  posed  as  a  pupil,  but  that  my  courage 
failed.  .  .  I  felt,  however,  glad  to  think  that,  in  this  case,  the 
study  of  Art  had  not,  as  some  declare,  tended  to  make  the 


334  RAGS  AND  ERUDITION  CHAP. 

young  lady  regardless  either  of  her  appearance  or  of  neatly- 
fitting  tailor-made  clothes.  But  she  went  on  with  her  following 
to  the  Nereid's  Tomb,  and  I  saw  her  no  more. 

In  the  long  galleries  of  the  British  Museum  is  generally  to 
be  found  a  motley  gathering  of  visitors,  in  which  the  poor,  and 
the  children  of  the  poor,  largely  predominate.  Rows  of 
chattering  little  girls  in  pinafores,  corresponding  batches  of 
little  boys  in  knickerbockers,  greet  one  at  every  turn.  And 
the  more  ragged  the  children,  the  more  astonishingly  erudite  and 
profound  are  sometimes  their  utterances.  This  is  a  surprising 
testimony  to  the  efficacy  of  the  Board  Schools,  as  well  as  to  the 
advance  of  learning  generally.  The  visitor  who  "  lies  low  "  and 
listens,  in  any  of  the  Greek  Marble  Rooms,  will  often  find  cause  to 
marvel  at  youthful  and  ragged  intelligence.  Girls  are  more  flip- 
pant, perhaps,  than  boys :  "  'Ere's  the  Wenus,"  one  will  say : 
"  you  can  always  tell  'er,  'cos  she  seems  to  be  lookin'  around  and 
sayin' :  '  Ain't  I  pretty '  ?  "  Yet,  though  to  hear  unkempt  and  neg- 
lected waifs  talking  wisely  about  Greek  marbles  does,  I  rriust 
confess,  puzzle  me,  I  must,  in  fairness,  own  that  there  appears 
to  be  another  side  to  the  question,  and  that  the  officials  on  guard 
appear  to  entertain  no  very  high  views  as  to  juvenile  erudition. 
"  So  far  as  I've  noticed,"  a  kindly  British  Museum  policeman 
once  said  to  me,  "  the  street  children  don't  get  much  real  good 
out  of  going  to  the  Museum.  They  bring  a  lot  of  dirt  out  of 
.the  streets  in  with  them,  their  fingers  are  generally  sticky,  and 
they  look  about  'em — oh,  yes  !  but  not  usually  with  any  object, 
just  vacantly." 

This  was  depressing.  (Did  the  accompanying  dirt,  I 
wondered,  at  all  affect  this  particular  policeman's  outlook  ? 
"  But  I  saw  a  small  crowd  of  boys  and  girls  looking  hard  at 
the  King  Alfred  documents  and  missals,"  I  murmured. 

"  Oh,  and  so  you  might  have  done  ;  but  didn't  you  notice,"  said 
the  stern  guardian  of  the  law,  "  that  a  lot  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men had  been  lookin'  at  'em  just  before  ?  They  wouldn't  have 
troubled  about  'etn  without  that.  ...  And  King  Alfred's  all 


xiv  "THE  PEOPLE'S  DAY"  335 

the  thing  now.  .  .  .  Children  always  come,  like  bees,  where 
other  people  are  lookin' ;  and  try  and  squeeze  the  older  folks 
out  just  to  see  what  they've  been  a-lookin'  at.  ...  Yes,"  he 
owned,  in  reply  to  my  incredulous  interjection,  "  the  children 
might  have  heard  the  name  of  Alfred  in  their  history  books, 
but  no  more  ;  that  wouldn't  be  the  cause  of  their  crowding  up. 
Their  mothers  often  send  'em  into  the  Museum  when  they 
want  to  go  out  themselves,  or  perhaps  just  to  get  rid  of  'em  for 
a  time.  Children  are  more  indulged,  and  not  half  so  well-be- 
haved, as  I  was  when  I  was  a  boy." 

But  the  chatter  of  the  children  is  stilled,  or,  at  any  rate,  lost 
among  the  vast  marbles  of  the  collection,  where  so  many 
sounds  mix  and  mingle  in  a  soothing  aloofness.  Here, 
in  the  long  galleries,  where  the  faint  light,  "  that  kind  of 
light,"  as  Rossetti  said,  "that  London  takes  the  day  to  be," 
slants  down  on  Roman  bust  and  Greek  god,  may  sometimes 
be  heard  charitable  ladies  explaining  to  dirty  little  street-arabs 
the  influence  of  Phidias  on  Early  Italian  sculpture ;  or  one  of 
the  elegant  Hypatia-like  girl-lecturers  already  described,  dis- 
courses, while  a  motley  crowd  of  pupils  : 

— "  school-foundations  in  the  act 
Of  holiday,  three  files  compact — " 

— draw  near  to  listen.  .  .  And  who  can  tell  where  the  grain 
may  fall  ? 

Sunday  is  now  the  great  "People's  Day"  at  the  British 
Museum.  Those  who  cavil  at  "Sunday  opening"  should 
really  visit  the  Museum  then,  when,  from  two  till  four,  the 
galleries  are  dotted  with  intelligent  sightseers.  (For  the 
Museum,  be  it  noted,  is  not  so  often  used  as  a  mere  shelter 
from  rain,  "jes'  to  pass  the  toime  away,"  or  as  the  "refresh- 
ment-room "  already  referred  to,  as  it  used  to  be.)  Perhaps 
the  greatest  crowd  is  to  be  found  upstairs,  where  the  mummy- 
room  is  greatly  beloved,  both  of  small  boys  and  of  honey- 
mooning couples.  Young  couples,  I  notice,  either  in  the 


336  AMONG  THE  MUMMIES  CHAP. 

"  courting  "  or  newly-married  stage,  have  ever  a  strong  affinity 
for  mummies ; — and  as  to  boys  !  .  .  .  While  you  are,  perchance, 
reflecting  over  the  decaying  embroideries  of  a  mummy-case, 
and  wondering  what  was  the  life  and  fate  of  its  once-lovely 
occupant,  after  the  manner  of  Sir  Edwin  Arnold  : 

"  Tiny  slippers  of  gold  and  green  ! 
Tied  with  a  mouldering  golden  cord  ! 
What  pretty  feet  you  must  have  been 
When  Caesar  Augustus  was  Egypt's  lord ' 

"'Ere,  look  'ere,  Jimmy,"  one  of  those  demon  boys  will 
break  in,  interrupting  your  reverie  :  "  you  can  see  the  corpse's 
'ole  fice  !  My  !  ain't  'e  jes'  black  !  Blimy  if  'e  aint  'ad  'is  nose 
bruk  in  a  fight,  as  'e  ain't  got  but  the  'alf  of  it  left,"  &c.,  &c., 

"  See  wot  this  lydy's  got  wrote  on  'er,  'Arry,"  the 
blooming  betrothed  of  a  speechless  young  man  will  strike  in, 
unconsciously  carrying  on  the  chorus :  "  Three  thieusand 
years  old  !  My  !  'ow-ever  could  they  a  kep'  'er  all  that  time  ! 
She's  a  bit  orf  colour,  certingly — but  sich  good  clothes  to  bury 
'er  in— I  call  it  nothin'  but  sinful  waste,"  &c.,  &c. 

Yet  I  can  tell  a  more  touching  story,  in  another  sort,  of  the 
Mummy  Room.  Once  I  happened  to  watch  a  small  boy — a 
very  decidedly  "earthly"  small  boy,  too;  one  would  not  have 
expected  it  of  him — on  whom  the  mummies  seemed  to  exercise 
a  quite  indescribable  fascination.  He  even  stopped  half-way 
through  his  stale  Museum  bun,  and  gazed  at  them  with  a 
species  of  horror.  Then,  after  a  five-minutes'  silence,  he 
breathed  hard,  and  said  to  his  companion,  in  an  awe-struck 
whisper  : 

"  They  don't  know  we're  looking  at  them  ! " 

The  "  Jewel  Room  "  is  another  favourite  haunt.  Here  only 
some  twenty  people  are  allowed  in  at  one  time,  and  the  police- 
men are  doubly  reinforced;  and  indeed,  since  the  accident 
to  the  Portland  Vase,  it  is  certainly  a  necessary  precaution. 
This  beautiful  vase,  lent  in  1810  by  the  Duke  of  Portland, 


xiv  "MUSEUM  HEADACHE"  337 

was  smashed  by  a  semi-lunatic  in  1845.  This  man,  suddenly 
and  without  motive,  deliberately  aimed  a  brick  at  it,  and 
crashed  it  into  fragments,  from  which  it  has  been  cleverly 
restored  as  we  see  it  at  present. 

People  who  find  the  British  Museum  exhausting — and  they 
are  many — take  too  much  of  it  at  one  time.  It  is  therefore 
small  wonder  that  they  often  suffer  from  a  kind  of  mental  indi- 
gestion— "Museum  headache"  it  has  been  appropriately 
termed.  A  pretty  young  girl  complained  to  me  of  just  such  a 
headache  the  other  day  :  "  I  wanted,"  she  said,  "  to  go  to 
"  Niagara,"  but  T —  insisted  on  taking  me  to  that  dreadful 
Museum  instead,  and  I  had  to  walk  past  rows  and  rows  of 
awful  headless  things  for  two  hours  !  "  Poor  thing  !  But  many 
people  share  her  feelings  without  possessing  her  frankness. 
And  to  walk  through  the  long,  gloomy  galleries  of  the  Museum 
without  due  object,  preparation,  or  intention,  is,  no  doubt, 
exhausting.  It  is  true  that  we.  are  there  "  heirs  of  all  the 
ages,"  but  it  is  equally  true  that  nobody  can  satisfactorily 
inherit  all  the  ages  at  one  and  the  same  time.  If  we  content 
ourselves  with  but  one  department  for  the  day,  it  is  wonderful 
how  interested  we  may  become.  Mr.  Grant  Allen — who,  by 
the  way,  was  generally  unkind  about  London,  must  have 
experienced  the  boredom  that  comes  with  a  mental  surfeit. 

"  The  British  Museum  "  (he  says)  "  is  indeed  a  place  to  despair  in — or  else 
to  saunter  through  carelessly  with  a  glance  right  and  left  at  what  happens  to 
catch  your  eye  or  take  your  fancy.  I  must  add  "  (he  continues  unpleas- 
antly), "  that  a  certain  blight  of  inexplicable  shabbiness  hangs  somehow 
over  the  vast  collection  ;  whether  it  is  the  gloom  of  Bloomsbury,  the  want 
of  space  in  the  galleries,  the  haphazard  mode  of  acquisition,  or  what,  I 
know  not ;  but  certainly,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  the  objects  here  ex- 
hibited are  far  less  interesting,  relatively  to  their  intrinsic  scientific  and 
artistic  worth,  than  those  of  the  Louvre,  the  Vatican,  the  Munich  galleries, 
or  any  other  great  European  museum.  Dinginess  and  stinginess  are  every- 
where conspicuous." 

Mr.  Grant  Allen  was,  evidently,  a  West-Ender.  And  as  he 
elsewhere  calls  St.  Paul's  "  bare,  pretentious,  and  unimpressive," 

z 


338  A  GALLERY  OF  INSTRUCTION  CHAP. 

and  London  generally  "a  squalid  village,"  we  need  the  less 
mind  his  calling  the  British  Museum  "  a  gloomy  and 
depressed-looking  building."  He  had  evidently  never  seen 
the  pillared  portico  shining  in  the  May  sun,  its  flocks  of  pretty 
pigeons  feeding  on  the  green  plots  that  line  the  enclosure,  and 
the  lately-planted  young  plane-trees  bursting  into  vivid  green, 
— a  new  "  boulevard  "  along  its  outer  line  of  railings. 

Mr.  Allen  was,  of  course,  thinking  of  the  more  romantic  sur- 
roundings of  foreign  galleries,  housed  in  ancient  palaces,  with 
all  the  adornments  of  parquet,  mosaic,  and  often  tropical 
gardens.  There  is,  however,  a  faint  glimmer  of  truth  in  what 
he  says.  We  in  London  have  not  the  consummate  art  of  the 
foreigner  in  the  arrangement  and  setting- off  of  beautiful  objects. 
In  the  Louvre,  for  instance,  all  the  galleries  lead  to  a  final 
star,  shining  through  the  long  vista  of  space, — the  Venus  of 
Milo ;  in  the  Vatican,  all  the  noble  chefs-d'oeuvre  glimmer  in 
alcoves  round  a  central  fountain.  Here,  in  our  Museum, 
per  contra,  you  seem  rather  to  be  in  a  Gallery  of  Instruction. 
It  is  not  only  in  shops  that  we  in  England  have  to  learn 
how  to  "dress  our  windows."  But  at  any  rate,  no  one 
will  deny  that  we  have  of  late  made  enormous  advances  in 
the  art. 

Nevertheless,  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  British 
Museum  collections,  beauty  on  which  I  have  already  touched 
in  the  Bloomsbury  chapter,  impress  us  in  spite  of  fog,  and 
grime,  and  dull  London  galleries.  And  the  feeling  for  the 
suitable  arrangement  and  disposal  of  our  artistic  treasures 
grows  upon  our  directors  year  by  year.  Thus,  the  gigantic 
figure  of  Mausolus,  as  he  stands  driving  his  triumphal  car,  a 
wonder  of  the  world,  is  effectively  placed  ;  and  though  it  is  but 
seldom  light  enough  to  view  the  Assyrian  Bull-gods  thoroughly 
in  their  dark  corner,  they  form,  doubtless,  an  imposing  entrance 
to  the  old  Greek  marbles.  The  Egyptian  Hall  is  also  impres- 
sive, and  the  enormous  scarab,  called  irreverently  by  an 
American  visitor,  "about  the  biggest  bug  in  Europe,"  is 


SIGHT-SEEING 


339 


advantageously  placed,  as  also  that  Grammar  of  Hieroglyphic 
the  "  Rosetta  Stone." 


At  the  Royal  Academy. 

The  collection    of  Tanagra  figurines,  on  the  upper    floor, 
near  the  Jewel  Room,  is   one  of  the  most  interesting  depart- 

z  2 


340  TANAGRA  FIGURINES  CHAP. 

ments  in  the  Museum.  Here,  in  a  small  compass,  you  may 
follow  the  whole  development  of  the  plastic  art,  from  the 
rudest  clay  effigies  and  caricatures,  to  the  most  lovely  realisa- 
tion of  the  Greek  feeling  for  beauty.  Some  of  the  ladies,  with 
their  palm-leaf  fans  and  "  Liberty  "  draperies,  seem  hardly  to 
come  to  us  from  the  tomb  ;  have  we  not  met  and  loved  them 
in  our  own  day  ?  Their  dresses,  their  attitudes,  are  so  modern, 
even  their  hair  is  arranged  in  the  present  styles.  Especially 
charming  are  two  damsels  in  tea-gowns,  leaning  earnestly 
towards  one  another,  enjoying  some  choice  bit  of  gossip. 
And  there  are  two  figures  in  this  particular  gallery,  in  which 
I  claim  to  take  a  quite  special  interest ;  having  seen  them,  so 
to  speak,  in  their  transition  stage.  It  happened  thus  : 
When  I  was  in  Athens  some  few  years  back,  a  waiter,  takirg 
us  no  doubt  for  "  rich  English  milors,"  said,  in  a  stage  whisper, 
that  he  had  some  fine  things  to  dispose  of.  He  kept  them,  he 
said,  for  safety  in  the  cellar.  So  to  the  cellar  he  went,  and 
produced,  from  many  wrappings  of  cotton-wool,  the  treasures  : 
— that  very  winged  Eros  and  that  same  pirouetting  ballet-dancer 
that  now  adorn  one  of  the  central  wall-cases.  Alas,  in  our 
case,  that  waiter  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  He  wanted 
no  less  than  ^£40  for  the  Eros  and  ^30  for  the  ballet  dancer ; 
and  they  were  returned  to  their  cotton-wool  and  to  the  cellar. 
But,  a  twelvemonth  passed,  and  behold  !  one  fine  day  we 
recognised  with  joy  our  old  friends  in  the  familiar  surroundings 
of  the  British  Museum  ! 

Many  of  the  British  Museum  treasures  have,  like  that  winged 
Eros,  endured  strange  vicissitudes  of  fortune.  The  great 
"  Elgin  "  marbles, — those  sculptures  from  the  Parthenon  so 
long  furiously  raged  over  in  print  on  the  much-vexed  charge 
of  vandalism  in  appropriation,  and  still  more  furiously  threat- 
ened by  the  rage  of  the  sea  on  their  transit  from  the  Acropolis, 
— were,  indeed,  shipwrecked  on  their  way  here.  Then  there 
are  the  contents  of  the  "  Mausoleum "  Room,  the  whole 
story  of  the  discovery  of  which,  by  Sir  Charles  Newton  at 


xiv  SOUTH  KENSINGTON  MUSEUM  341 

Halicarnassus,  in  1856,  is  like  one  long  romance.  Other 
objects  recall  various  stories.  The  familiar  bust  called 
"  Clytie,"  for  instance,  so  admired  by  Carlyle,  and  so  familiar 
in  drawing  schools,  was  the  most  cherished  possession  of  Mr. 
Townley,  who  "  escaped  with  it  in  his  arms  when  he  was 
expecting  his  house  to  be  sacked  during  the  Gordon  riots." 
"  Fortunately,"  says  the  chronicler,  "the  attack  did  not  take 
place,  and  Mr.  Townley's  wife,  as  he  called  her,  returned  to 
her  companions."  The  corridors  of  the  British  Museum,  that 
suggest  such  boredom  to  the  uninitiated,  are  full  of  such 
stories.  So  much  we  know,  but,  ah  !  if  these  stones  could 
only  tell  their  histories,  and  let  the  full  light  into  their 
chequered  past ! 

The  South  Kensington  Museum,  now  officially,  by  order  of 
the  late  Queen,  termed  "  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum,5'  is 
well  known  to  all  dwellers  in,  and  visitors  to,  London.  The 
large  and  wonderful  collections  that  it  contains  have  been  for 
many  years  so  overcrowded  and  so  irregularly  arranged,  as  to 
lose  half  their  attraction.  For  long  it  existed  partly  in  shanties 
and  temporary  buildings,  and  a  hideous  iron  structure,  nick- 
named the  "  Brompton  Boilers,"  was  for  long  the  disgrace  of 
a  rich  and  a  beauty-loving  nation.  All  these  have  at  length 
been  swept  away ;  the  terribly  inadequate  main  entrance  (in 
the  Brompton  Road)  is  being  done  away  with,  and  a  new 
facade  is  rising,  which  will  soon  effect  great  changes  and 
improvements.  Mr.  Ruskin,  who  was  always  a  victim  of 
moods,  was  apparently  in  his  day  made  very  cross  by  the 
general  muddle,  and  expressed  his  feelings  on  the  subject  in 
the  following  burst  of  pathetic  eloquence  : 

"At  South  Kensington  (he  says),  "where  I  lost  myself  in  a  Cretan 
labyrinth  of  military  ironmongery,  advertisements  of  spring  blinds,  model 
fish-farming,  and  plaster  bathing  nymphs  with  a  year's  smut  on  the  noses  of 
them  ;  and  had  to  put  myself  in  charge  of  a  policeman  to  get  out  again." 

Indeed,  in  its  vast  size,  its  involved  construction,  and  its 
encylopaedic  scope,  the  South  Kensington  Museum  much 


342  NATURAL  HISTORY  MUSEUM  CHAP. 

resembles  a  maze,  and,  once  inside  it,  it  is  difficult  indeed  to 
know  the  points  of  the  compass.  Yet,  everything  can  be 
seen  here,  if  only  you  know  where  to  look  for  it.  It  is,  itself, 
a  "  General  Exhibition  "  on  no  mean  scale.  And  here  is  more 
than  ever  exemplified  the  great  truth,  that  the  most  beautiful 
objects  lose  in  effect  in  proportion  to  the  unsuitableness  of 
their  immediate  surroundings.  Even  the  model  of  the  Pisan 
pulpit,  crowded  as  it  is  among  so  many  incongruous  objects, 
seems  here  a  sort  of  glorified  stove-pipe,  while  the  carved  front 
of  Sir  Paul  Pindar's  old  house  almost  suggests  a  magnified  dolls'- 
house  awaiting  sale,  and  plaster  casts  jostle  on  all  sides  with 
the  valuable  treasures  of  antiquity.  Here  again  are  the  groups 
of  feminine  students  with  their  guides,  and  also  many  isolated 
toilers,  "working  up"  some  special  branch  of  knowledge  in 
the  different  sections,  such  as  Ivories,  Porcelain,  Lace,  Musical 
Instruments,  or  Italian  woodwork.  (The  students  are  here,  I 
may  add,  a  trifle  better  dressed  than  those  at  the  British 
Museum ;  they  are  also,  on  an  average,  a  thought  cleaner, 
and  their  hair  has,  perhaps,  a  tendency  to  be  neater.)  The 
"  omnium-gatherum,"  as  it  has  been  called,  of  South  Ken- 
sington, should,  like  any  other  Exhibition,  be  taken  piecemeal, 
and  on  the  first  visit  the  stranger  should  merely  try,  if  possible, 
to  see  the  historic  Raphael  cartoons,  and  those  most  inter- 
esting pictures  of  the  British  School  that  form  the  famous 
"  Sheepshanks  "  collection. 

The  neighbouring  Natural  History  Museum,  Waterhouse's 
vast  edifice  of  terra-cotta,  is,  internally,  a  most  beautifully  plan- 
ned building,  and  the  arrangement  of  its  various  classes  of 
specimens  is  no  less  excellent.  Nothing  could  be  better  done, 
either  for  purposes  of  entertainment  or  of  instruction,  than  the 
groups  in  the  Great  Hall  of  the  building,  where  animals, 
birds,  and  insects,  are  shown  charmingly  mounted  and  in  their 
own  natural  surroundings ;  and  where,  by  careful  and  well- 
selected  illustration,  such  strange  living  mysteries  as 
"  melanism  "  and  "  albinism  "  are  demonstrated  and  explained. 


xiv  TATE  GALLERY  343 

One  of  the  most  striking  glass  cases  of  all  is  that  which  illus- 
trates "  Protective  Resemblances  and  Mimicry,"  a  subject 
which  is  attracting  much  notice  at  the  present  day  among 
naturalists  (see  the  late  Professor  Henry  Drummond's 
Tropical  Africa  for  further  curious  imformation  on  this 
interesting  subject).  Some  of  the  strange  natural  imitations 
shown  here,  such  as  of  dead  leaves  by  butterflies,  or  of  bits  of 
straw  by  insects,  are  wonderful  indeed. 

The  new  Tate  Gallery,  raised  by  the  munificence  of  one  of 
our  merchant  princes  for  the  enshrinement  of  modern  British 
Art,  is  a  building  of  quite  another  kind.  This  edifice,  in  the 
Greek  style,  was  built  by  the  late  Sir  Henry  Tate,  on  the 
.site  of  old  Millbank  Prison,  at  Westminster.  When  this  Gallery 
was  first  opened,  in  July,  1897,  its  approaches  were  always 
thronged  by  private  carriages,  and  powdered  footmen  waited 
in  the  muddy,  half-finished  roads  (for  the  whole  locality  was 
then  in  a  state  of  incompleteness).  But  this  was  in  the  early 
days  of  its  fame  ;  the  vagaries  of  fashion  are  of  short  duration, 
and  although  even  yet  "smart"  people  are  to  be  met  with 
occasionally  in  the  Tate  Gallery,  they  are  now  in  a  decided 
minority  ;  they  have,  most  likely,  betaken  themselves  to  the 
still  newer  exhibition  of  Hertford  House. 

It  is  the  artisan,  the  small  shopkeeper,  the  great  "  lower 
middle-class,"  that  frequent  chiefly  the  Tate  Gallery.  Not  by 
any  means  the  same  class,  for  instance,  that  you  see  at  the 
National  Gallery ;  the  visitors  to  the  Tate  Gallery  are  mainly 
the  lovers  of  "the  human  interest."  in  a  picture,  and  not  the 
earnest  students.  Here  the  sightseers  roam,  like  butterflies, 
from  flower  to  flower ;  not  so  much  to  gather  the  honey,  as 
just  to  enjoy  the  moment.  Therefore,  at  Millbank,  they  are 
but  rarely  gowned  in  angular  "  art  serge,"  and  are  but  seldom 
be-spectacled  and  be-catalogued.  Neither  are  the  Hypatia- 
like  girl-lecturers  at  all  evident.  Sir  Henry  Tate  used  to  take 
an  evident  pleasure  in  walking  about  the  galleries  that  his 
munificence  had  provided.  Only  a  short  time  before  his 


344  NATIONAL  GALLERY  CHAP. 

death,  he  was  to  be  seen  there,  benevolent  and  urbane  as  ever, 
the  type  of  what  Mr.  Ruskin  has  called  "the  entirely  honest 
merchant." 

The  Tate  Gallery  is  considered,  administratively,  as  part  of 
the  National  Gallery;  and  many  pictures  of  the  modern 
British  school  have,  as  every  one  knows,  been  removed  to 
Millbank  from  the  older  collection.  But  the  earlier  pictures 
of  the  .British  School,  and  the  Turners,  are  still  in  Trafalgar 
Square. 

The  wealth  of  foreign  pictures  now  to  be  seen  in  the 
National  Gallery  of  London  renders  it  the  Mecca  of  every 
visitor,  both  from  our  own  country,  and  from  overseas.  The 
National  Gallery,  fine  as  it  is,  is  but  a  comparatively  modern 
growth.  Founded  in  1824  by  the  purchase  of  the  Angerstein 
Collection,  it  slowly,  very  slowly  at  first,  crept  into  fame  and  dis- 
tinction. Only  some  forty-five  years  ago,  Mr.  Ruskin  said  of  it 
that  it  was  "an  European  jest ! "  Since  1887  its  pictures  have 
nearly  doubled  in  number  and  it  is  now,  if  not  one  of  the 
finest,  at  least  one  of  the  most  representative,  collections  in  the 
world.  The  internal  arrangement  of  the  Gallery  leaves  little 
to  be  desired,  and  its  spacious  entrance  hall  and  staircase, 
adorned  with  coloured  marbles,  has  a  solid  dignity,  with  a  cheer- 
fulness and  brightness  usually  somewhat  lacking  in  London.  A 
fine  bust  of  Egyptian  porphyry,  called  the  "  Dying  Alexander," 
(a  copy  of  one  in  the  Ufifizi),  presented  by  Mr.  Henry  Yates 
Thompson,  forms  an  effective  centre-piece  for  the '  Entrance 
Vestibule. 

Once  inside  the  magic  portals  of  the  National  Gallery,  a 
very  paradise  is  opened  to  the  art-loving  visitor.  He  will 
soon  forget,  revelling  in  those  soft  Italian  skies,  that  glowing 
southern  colour,  that  outside  his  shelter  hums  the  London  of 
the  twentieth  century.  The  pictures  are  finely  arranged,  and 
they  are  not  crowded.  A  hint  has  been  taken  from  the 
Louvre,  and  the  famous  "  Blenheim  Raphael,"  the  Ansidei 
Madonna  (bought  by  the  nation  for  such  a  tremendous  price 


XIV 


NATIONAL  GALLERY 


345 


from  the  Duke  of  Marl  borough),  greets  the  entering  visitor  from 
the  far  end  of  a  long  vista.     The  walls  on  which  the  pictures 


UL 


Recruiting  Serjeants  by  t/te  National  Gallery. 

are  hung  are  covered  in  Pompeian  red  or  sober  green,  with  a 
wall-covering  that  has  the  soothing  effect  of  rich  Venetian 
brocade,  and  that  even  improves  in  tone  with  years. 


346  PICTURE  STORIES  CHAP. 

The  National  Gallery  cannot  be  seen  in  one  visit.  For  any 
real  appreciation  of  the  vast  collections,  ten,  twenty  visits 
rather  are  needed ;  visits  that  need  never,  now,  be  other  than 
a  pleasure ;  the  improved  conditions  making  the  place  itself 
attractive,  and  whatever  light  is  obtainable  in  London  finding 
its  way  to  those  large  and  lofty  galleries.  The  mass  of  "  the 
People "  mainly  frequent  the  British  Schools ;  and,  even  in 
the  larger  portion  of  the  building  occupied  by  the  Foreign 
Schools,  every  room  has  usually,  like  the  London  collections 
generally,  its  special  votaries.  For  instance,  in  the  little  room 
devoted  to  the  Early  Sienese  painters,  you  will  nearly  always 
find  a  few  earnest  students,  making  pencil  marks  on  note- 
books or  in  elaborate  catalogues ;  in  the  long  Italian  Gallery 
they  are,  perhaps,  just  a  trifle  less  severe,  but  are  still  more  or 
less  of  the  same  type,  sitting  in  rapt  contemplation  and  still 
with  catalogues ;  but  the  Dutch  School  is  already  more 
flippant,  and  but  few  catalogues  survive  into  the  Spanish  and 
French  Schools. 

The  romance  of  the  National  Gallery, — what  volumes  might 
not  be  written  on  the  fascinating  subject  !  If,  here  again,  old 
pictures  could  tell  stories  of  their  past,  what  adventures  could 
they  not  relate  !  The  long  corridors  of  the  National  Gallery, 
filled  with  masterpieces  from  all  nations  and  ages,  would  of 
themselves  furnish  as  copious  records  as  many  a  shelf  in  the 
British  Museum  Library.  What  stories  might  these  pictures  tell : 
of  their  painting,  their  owners,  the  generations  to  which  they  have 
served  as  the  Lares  and  Penates,  the  families  whose  vicissitudes 
they  have  shared  !  This,  maybe,  had  hung  for  years,  blackened 
and  tarnished,  in  a  pawnbroker's  shop  till  some  vigilant  eye 
rescued  it  from  its  oblivion  •  that,  perhaps,  had  saved  its 
owner's  life,  or  redeemed  the  fortunes  of  a  nation.  This,  again, 
formed  the  "  wedding-chest  "  of  a  beautiful  dark-eyed  bride,  dust 
long  ago ;  that  caused  the  imprisonment,  almost  the  death,  of 
its  author.  Unhappily,  old  pictures  are  "  silent  witnesses  "  of 
history.  We  can,  indeed,  discover,  through  much  searching 


xiv  TURNER  AND  CLAUDE 


347 


in  dusty  archives,  the  provenance  of  a  few  of  our  most 
celebrated  pictures,  or  read,  perhaps,  one  or  two  of  the  stories 
relating  to  them ;  but  how  many  are  there  of  which  we  have 
not  been  able  to  find  a  record  ?  It  depends  mainly  on  chance 
what  stories  survive,  and  what  do  not.  Then,  such  as  are 
known  are  often  not  widely  known ;  they  lie  hidden,  for  the 
most  part,  in  musty  blue-books,  or  in  tomes  of  ancient  lore, 
attainable  by  the  student  only.  The  mere  title,  The  Cornfield 
or  The  Repose,  tells  so  little.  Does  it  not  add  to  our  interest 
in  the  pictures  to  know  that  the  one  was  thought  by  Constable 
to  be  his  best  work,  and  that  the  scene  of  the  other  was  laid 
among  the  hills  of  Titian's  own  country  ?  In  connection  with 
the  inscriptions  on  the  frames,  most  visitors,  I  fancy,  will 
share  the  disappointment  I  felt,  when  on  revisiting  the 
Gallery  one  day  I  found  the  familiar  "  Raphael "  disguised 
as  "Sanzio,"  "  Tintoret,"  as  "  Robusti "  and  so  forth;  but 
this  somewhat  pedantic  innovation  has  now  been  partially 
remedied. 

The  early  Italian  pictures  were  usually  painted  to  adorn 
particular  places ;  some,  perhaps,  to  decorate  a  wooden  chest 
for  the  furnishing  of  a  room,  as  Benozzo  Gozzoli's  Rape  of 
Helen ;  others  to  consecrate  an  altar,  as  Raphael's  Madonna  ; 
many  to  assist  in  the  carrying  out  of  some  architectural  design,  as 
in  Crivelli's  pictures,  or  Fra  Filippo  Lippi's  Vision  of  St.  Bernard. 
All,  at  any  rate,  were  painted,  not  to  hang  in  rows  in  a  gallery, 
but  for  particular  persons,  places,  and  occasions,  far  removed 
from  the  present  environment  of  them.  Perhaps  our  only  pictures 
specially  painted  with  a  view  to  the  Gallery  which  they  now  adorn, 
are  those  in  which  Turner's  rivalry  with  Claude  is  immortalised. 
Visitors  may  wonder  why,  in  a  room  devoted  to  the  French 
School  of  Painting,  they  are  suddenly  confronted  with  two 
large  canvases  of  Turner's.  The  fact  is  that  Turner  painted 
them  in  direct  competition  with  Claude.  The  great  modern 
landscape-painter  determined  to  beat  the  ancient  on  his  own 
classical  ground.  Whether  he  has  conquered  is  indeed  a 


348  ANCIENT  TOMB-PORTRAITS  CHAP. 

question  ;  but  the  pictures  still  hang  side  by  side  in  unconscious 
rivalry,  telling  the  pathetic  story  of  the  dead  man's  ambition. 
Turner,  who  left  these  two  pictures,  among  many  others,  to  the 
nation,  expressly  stipulated  that  they  should  hang  between 
those  two  by  Claude.  In  vain,  during  his  life,  large  sums  were 
offered  for  them  ;  he  steadily  refused  to  sell.  "  What  in  the 
world,  Turner,  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ? "  his  friend 
Chantrey  asked,  referring  to  the  Carthage.  "  Be  buried 
in  it,"  Turner  replied  grimly,  keeping  its  real  destination  a 
secret. 

There  are  in  the  National  Gallery  some  pictures  actually 
painted  for  the  sitters  to  be  buried  in.  These  are  the  early 
Graeco-Egyptian  portraits,  which  glare  down  upon  us  in  the 
vestibule.  A  few  years  ago  a  workman's  spade,  digging  in  the 
Fayoum,  accidentally  struck  against  a  mummy-case.  Affixed  to 
the  outside  covering,  in  a  position  corresponding  to  the  head  of 
the  corpse,  was  a  portrait  of  a  man  in  his  habit  as  he  lived. 
That  "find"  led  to  others.  Some  dozen  tombs,  closed  1,500 
years  ago,  were  rifled  in  order  to  supply  a  fresh  link  in  the 
historical  development  of  art  as  exhibited  in  our  National 
Gallery. 

Just  above  these  old-world  pagans  hangs  Spinello  Aretino's 
Fall  of  the  Rebel  Angels,  with  devils  and  dragons  galore.  If 
you  gaze  at  the  mummy  faces  long  enough,  you  can  quite 
imagine  the  dead  men's  faces  looking  at  you  ;  as  Spinello, 
who  was  an  imaginative  Florentine,  used  to  think  his  devils  did. 
Spinello's  picture  was  painted  to  decorate  the  church  of  Sta. 
Maria  degli  Angeli,  in  his  native  town  of  Arezzo  ;  and  he 
laboured  hard  to  make  the  chief  fiend,  Lucifer,  as  hideous  as 
possible.  So  much  did  this  idea  prey  upon  him,  that  one 
night  he  had  a  terrible  dream.  The  demon  he  had  painted 
appeared  to  him  in  his  sleep,  demanding  to  know  why  the 
painter  had  made  him  so  ugly.  Spinello,  it  is  said,  did  not 
survive  the  shock,  which  is  a  warning  to  those  who  take  liberties 
with  the  devil.  The  Greek  painter,  who,  when  confronted  with 


xiv  WILLIAM  BLAKE 


349 


an  unpleasing  sitter,  said  frankly,  "Paint  you?  Who  would 
paint  you,  when  no  one  would  even  look  at  you  ?  "  was  wiser. 

Seeing  the  pictures  in  the  National  Gallery  is  like  reading 
bits  of  old  biographies.  All  true  artists  put  their  life  into  their 
work,  and  leave  it  there.  Take  Marco  Marziale's  work — The 
Circumcision  of  Christ  (No.  803) — it  is  wonderful  in  respect 
of  the  faithful  labour  put  into  things  that  the  modern  painter 
would  generalise  as  mere  accessories.  An  amateur  embroideress 
could  easily  copy  the  elaborate  cross-stitch  of  Marziale's  lectern 
border,  and  find  no  stitch  in  its  wrong  place.  He  who  did  this 
was  only  a  second-rate  Venetian  painter,  and  a  label  painted  on 
the  canvas  fixes  the  date  and  makes  it  probable  that  this  was 
his  first  important  commission  ;  therefore,  Marco  spared  no 
trouble,  and  crowded  his  picture  with  all  the  most  beautiful 
textures  and  patterns  known  to  the  Venice  of  his  day.  People 
did  not  scamp  work  in  those  times. 

The  painter-poet,  William  Blake,  with  his  charming  in- 
sanity, has  left  us  glimpses  of  his  strangely  warped  mind  in 
his  mysterious  painting  of  Pitt  Guiding  Behemoth,  which 
hangs  on  the  walls  in  another  part  of  the  gallery.  The  more 
one  looks  at  this  little  picture,  the  more  its  green  and  gold 
hues  and  the  tongues  of  its  flames  have  fascination.  It  is 
dark  and  unattractive  at  a  first  glance :  but,  to  show  how 
fatally  easy  it  is  to  attract  a  "  following,"  and  also  how  much  in 
need  the  average  visitor  is  of  a  pilot  to  the  Gallery,  one  only  has 
to  draw  up  a  chair  and  seat  one's  self  before  this  small  canvas 
to  collect  an  inquisitive  crowd.  People,  even  educated  people,  are 
strangely  imitative  !  Besides  this  picture,  there  are  only  one  or 
two  minor  works  by  Blake  in  our  Rational  Gallery.  Instead 
of  his  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  we  have  here  that  of  his  con- 
temporary Stothard,  who  took  the  idea  from  Blake  and 
supplanted  him.  Stothard's  Canterbury  Pilgrims  caused  a 
quarrel  between  himself  and  Blake  ;  a  quarrel  which  was  never 
healed  ;  and  Blake  criticised  his  rival's  painting  freely  on  its 
exhibition.  Hoppner,  the  artist,  praised  it;  adding  that 


350  PICTURES  AND  HISTORY  CHAP. 

Stothard  had  "  contrived  to  give  a  value  to  a  common  scene, 
and  very  ordinary  forms."  Thereupon  Blake,  in  criticising  the 
critic,  said  that  this  was  Hoppner's  only  just  observation  ;  "for 
it  is  so,  and  very  wretchedly  so  indeed.  The  scene  of  Mr. 
S.'s  picture,"  he  adds,  "  is  by  Dulwich  hills,  which  is  not  the 
way  to  Canterbury  ;  but  perhaps  the  painter  thought  he  would 
give  them  a  ride  round  about,  because  they  were  a  burlesque  set. 
of  scarecrows,  not  worth  any  man's  respect  or  care."  Tantcene 
animis  ccelestibus  irce  ? 

Among  the  works  of  the  Lombard  School  is  a  picture  by 
Parmigiano,  The  Vision  of  St.  Jerome  (No.  33),  which 
shows  how  the  artist  can  forget  himself  in  his  work.  For 
Parmigiano  was  engaged  on  this  very  picture,  in  Rome,  during 
the  German  sack  of  the  city  in  1527.  Vasari  says  that  the 
painter  was  so  intent  on  his  work  that,  even  while  his  own 
dwelling  was  filled  with  the  German  invaders,  he  continued 
undisturbed;  and  that  when  they  arrived  in  his  room  and 
found  him  so  employed  they  stood  amazed  at  the  beautiful 
paintings,  and  wisely  permitted  him  to  continue.  Parmigiano's 
picture  is  thus,  in  the  truest  sense,  historical. 

There  is  another  class  of  pictures  that  is  associated  with 
incidents  in  history.  First,  we  have  that  priceless  little  painting 
by  Gerard  Terburg,  The  Peace  of  Munster  (896),  mentioned 
before  in  connection  with  Hertford  House.  It  hangs  in  the 
Dutch  Room,  and  is  so  small  that  one  might  easily  overlook  it. 
Small  as  it  is,  it  cost  at  its  last  sale  ,£8,800  ;  ^£24  -for  every 
square  inch  of  canvas.  The  Dutch  painter  has  represented 
one  of  the  turning-points  of  his  country's  history ;  the  ratifica- 
tion, in  1684,  of  the  Treaty  ^)f  Munster,  by  which  the  long  war 
between  Spain  and  the  United  Provinces  was  ended.  The 
numerous  heads  are  all  portraits,  and,  in  the  background,  the 
painter  has  introduced  himself.  There  is  about  this  painting  a 
photographic  truth,  a  minute  fidelity,  which  makes  it  doubly 
interesting.  Terburg  would  not  part  with  it  during  his 
life.  Afterwards,  amid  many  vicissitudes,  it  passed  into  the 


xiv  TIME'S  REVENGES  351 

possession  of  Prince  Talleyrand,  and  was  actually  hanging  in 
the  room  of  his  hotel,  under  the  view  of  the  Allied  Sovereigns, 
at  the  signing  of  the  Treaty  of  1814.  Not  less  interesting  in 
its  way  is  the  painting  by  Holbein  of  the  Duchess  Christina  of 
Denmark.  Among  Holbein's  duties,  as  Court  painter  and 
favourite  of  Henry  VI II.,  was  that  of  taking  the  portraits  of 
the  ladies  whom  the  King  proposed  to  wed.  This  young 
Christina  was  prime  favourite  after  the  death  of  Jane  Seymour, 
and  Holbein  was  despatched  to  Brussels  to  paint  her.  The 
picture  pleased  his  Majesty  ;  but,  for  political  reasons,  the 
match  was  broken  off.  The  story  of  Christina's  message  to 
the  King,  that  she  had  but  one  head,  but  that  if  she  "  had 
two  one  should  be  at  the  service  of  his  Majesty,"  is  now  dis- 
credited ;  but  the  Duchess  seems  to  have  had  a  character  of 
her  own. 

Peace  and  War,  by  Rubens,  an  allegorical  canvas  (46), 
is  another  picture  designed  to  sway  the  fate  of  nations. 
Rubens  painted  it  when  he  came  over  to  England,  in  1630,  as 
ambassador  to  negotiate  a  peace  with  Spain.  He  produced  an 
elaborate  allegory  showing  forth  the  Blessings  of  Peace,  and 
presented  it,  with  much  diplomacy,  to  Charles  I.  It  was  sold, 
after  the  King's  death,  for  ^"100;  to  be  bought  back  again  for 
,£3,000.  With  regard  to  Charles  I.,'s  pictures  generally,  much 
might  be  said  of  the  strange  irony  of  history.  The  large 
equestrian  picture  of  the  King  by  Vandyck  (1172),  bought  for 
the  nation  at  the  Blenheim  sale  for  ^17,000,  was,  after  his 
death,  sold  by  Parliament,  for  a  paltry  sum  ;  and  Correggio's 
famous  Mercury,  Venus,  and  Cupid,  (10),  also  included  in 
Charles's  collection,  was  sold  and  bought  again  by  successive 
Parliaments. 

Among  the  early  Florentine  pictures  in  the  Gallery, 
Botticelli's  Nativity  of  Christ  (1034),  is  history  in  the  sense 
of  showing  the  force  of  the  religious  revival  in  Savonarola's 
time.  Botticelli,  at  the  age  of  forty,  fell  under  the  preacher's 
influence,  and,  forsaking  the  world's  pleasures,  made  a 


352  BOTTICELLI'S  SYMBOLISM  CHAP. 

"mourner"  of  himself  until  his  death.     This  is  the  picture 
that,  as  Mr.  Lang  says,  was  : 

"  Wrought  in  the  troublous  times  of  Italy 
By  Sandro  Botticelli,  when  for  fear 
Of  that  last  judgment,  and  last  day  drawn  near, 
To  end  all  labour  and  all  revelry, 
He  wept  and  prayed  in  silence." 

The  painting  is  full  of  theological  symbolism,  and  its  Greek 
inscription,  being  translated,  runs  :  "  This,  I,  Alexander, 
painted  at  the  end  of  the  year  1500,  in  the  troubles  of  Italy, 
in  the  half-time  after  the  time  during  the  fulfilment  of  the 
eleventh  of  St.  John,  in  the  second  woe  of  the  Apocalypse,  in 
the  loosing  of  the  Devil  for  three  years  and  a  half.  Afterwards 
he  shall  be  chained,  and  we  shall  see  him  trodden  down,  as  in 
this  picture."  Botticelli  had  already,  earlier  in  life,  got  into 
religious  trouble  by  his  reforming  tendencies.  When  quite  a 
young  man,  he  had  painted,  for  a  Florentine  citizen,  Matteo 
Palmieri,  a  large  picture  called  The  Assumption  of  the  Virgin, 
which  also  hangs  in  our  Gallery  (No.  1126).  Palmieri 
had  adopted  Origen's  strange  heresy  that  the  human  race  was 
an  incarnation  of  those  angels  who,  in  the  revolt  of  Lucifer, 
were  neither  for  God  nor  for  his  enemies  ;  and,  as  he  and 
Botticelli,  in  working  out  the  design  of  the  picture,  had  made 
amendments  in  theology,  they  fell  into  disgrace.  Suspected  of 
heresy,  Botticelli's  work  was  covered  up ;  and  the  chapel  for 
which  it  had  been  painted  was  closed  until  the ,  picture  left 
Florence  for  the  Duke  of  Hamilton's  collection  and  was 
bought  by  the  nation  in  1882.  "The  story  of  the  heresy 
interprets,"  Mr.  Pater  says,  "  much  of  the  peculiar  sentiment  with 
which  Botticelli  infuses  his  profane  and  sacred  persons,  neither 
all  human  nor  all  divine." 

Most  interesting,  too,  is  Carpaccio's  Venetian  painting  of  the 
Doge  Giovanni  Mocenigo  (750),  which  faithfully  represents  a 
page  of  the  history  of  Venice.  The  doge  is  shown  kneeling 
before  the  Virgin,  and  begging  her  protection,  on  the  occasion  of 


xiv  THE  VICISSITUDES  OF  PICTURES  353 

the  plague  in  1478.  Medicaments  and  nostrums  against  the 
epidemic  are  contained  in  a  gold  vase  on  the  altar  before  the 
throne ;  and  a  blessing  (according  to  the  inscription  below) 
is  asked  on  them:  "Celestial  Virgin,  preserve  the  City  and 
Republic  of  Venice,  and  the  Venetian  State,  and  extend  your 
protection  to  me,  if  I  deserve  it."  Simple  and  modest 
indeed  was  Venice  in  the  good  days  of  her  prosperity  ! 
Compare  with  this  kneeling,  crownless  doge,  the  new  and 
elaborate  frescoes  in  the  Vatican,  where  the  Pope  is  represented 
in  his  grandest  robes,  benevolently  granting  to  the  Madonna 
an  audience,  with  masters  of  the  ceremonies  standing  by,  and 
obsequious  pages  holding  his  gold-laced  train. 

Some  of  the  greatest  ornaments  of  our  Gallery  are  those 
which  have  been  thrown  off  easily  in  the  magnanimity  of  art. 
Chief  of  these  is  the  Veronese  called  The  Family  of  Darius 
(294).  This  large  painting,  with  its  splendid  architecture, 
gem-like  colour,  and  wonderful  composition,  was  painted  while 
Veronese  was  detained  by  an  accident  at  the  Pisani  Villa  at 
Este.  Having  left  it  behind  him  there,  he  sent  word  that  he 
had  left  wherewithal  to  defray  the  expense  of  his  entertainment ; 
and  his  words  were  more  than  verified.  The  picture,  whose 
golden  tones  Smetham,  the  artist,  so  much  admired,  turned 
really  to  gold  afterwards.  The  Pisani  family  sold  it  to  the 
National  Gallery,  in  1857,  for  ^13,650.  Veronese's  lavish- 
ness  in  giving  away  his  masterpieces  was  almost  equalled, 
however,  by  our  own  Gainsborough,  who  gave  his  Parish 
Clerk  (760)  to  a  carrier  who  had  conveyed  his  pictures  from 
Bath  to  the  Royal  Academy. 

The  wanderings  and  vicissitudes  of  celebrated  pictures  have 
been  many  indeed.  The  celebrated  Van  Eyck,yiwz  Arnolfini 
and  his  Wife  (186),  painted  five  hundred  years  ago,  has  had, 
for  instance,  an  eventful  history.  At  one  time  a  barber- 
surgeon  at  Bruges  presented  it  to  the  Queen  Regent  of  the 
Netherlands,  who  valued  it  so  highly  that  she  pensioned  him 
in  consideration  of  the  gift.  At  another,  it  must  have  passed 

A  A 


354  GREAT  MEN'S  FAVOURITE  PICTURES  CHAP, 

again  into  humbler  hands ;  for  General  Hay  found  it  in  the 
room  at  Brussels  to  which  he  was  taken  in  1815  to  recover 
from  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  The  story  of  Michael  Angelo's 
Entombment  is  also  curious.  It  was  once  in  the  gallery 
of  Cardinal  Fesch,  which  was  sold  and  dispersed  after  the 
cardinal's  death.  Being  in  a  neglected  condition  and  un- 
finished it  attracted  little  attention,  and  was  bought  very 
cheaply  by  Mr.  Macpherson,  a  Scotchman  sojourning  in  Rome. 
After  the  dirt  had  been  removed,  it  was  submitted  to  competent 
judges,  who  pronounced  it  to  be  by  Michael  Angelo.  This 
caused  a  great  sensation ;  and  a  lawsuit  was  instituted  against 
Mr.  Macpherson  for  the  recovery  of  the  picture,  a  suit  which 
ultimately  ended  in  his  favour.  He  removed  the  picture  to 
England,  and  sold  it  to  the  National  Gallery  for  ^"2,000. 

The  pictures  that  were  the  favourites  of  great  men  gain 
an  additional  value  in  our  eyes  from  that  fact.  Vandyck's 
Portrait  of  Rubens  (49),  Bassano's  Good  Samaritan  (2 7 7),.  and 
Bourdon's  Return  of  the  Ark  (64),  were  all  owned  and  much- 
prized  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  would  often  admire,  to 
his  Academy  pupils,  the  "poetical  style"  of  the  Bourdon. 
Vandyck  himself  singled  out  the  Portrait  of  Gevartius  as 
his  masterpiece,  and  used  to  "carry  it  about  from  court  to 
court  and  from  patron  to  patron,  to  show  what  he  could  do 
as  a  portrait-painter."  There  is,  too,  a  pretty  story  of  how  Sir 
George  Beaumont  valued  a  little  landscape  by  Claude  (61),  so 
highly  that  he  made  it  his  travelling  companion  He  presented 
it  to  the  National  Gallery  in  1826;  but,  unable  to  bear  its 
loss,  begged  it  back  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  took  it  with 
him  into  the  country ;  and  on  his  death  two  years  later,  his 
widow  restored  it  to  the  nation. 

I  might  go  on  multiplying  picture-stories  for  ever ;  for  the 
romance  of  the  National  Gallery  is  inexhaustible.  Times, 
and  men,  change ;  we  live  our  little  day,  and  are  gone ;  but 
here,  upon  our  walls,  live  souls  embodied  in  canvases,  monu- 
ments of  human  spirits  which  from  age  to  age  are  still  instinct 


xiv  THE  SECRET  OF  THE  "OLD  MASTERS"  355. 

with  life.  "Paul  Veronese,"  James  Smetham  writes,  "three 
hundred  years  ago,  painted  that  bright  Alexander,  with  his 
handsome  flushed  Venetian  face,  and  that  glowing  uniform  of 
the  Venetian  general  which  he  wears;  and  before  him,  on 
their  knees,  he  set  those  golden  ladies,  who  are  pleading  in 
pink  and  violet ;  and  there  is  he,  and  there  are  they  in  our 
National  Gallery ;  he,  flushed  and  handsome,  they,  golden  and 
suppliant  as  ever.  It  takes  an  oldish  man  to  remember  the 
comet  of  1811.  Who  remembers  Paul  Veronese,  nine  genera- 
tions since  ?  But  not  a  tint  of  his  thoughts  is  unfixed  ;  they 
beam  along  the  walls  as  fresh  as  ever.  Saint  Nicholas  stoops 
to  the  Angelic  Coronation,  and  the  solemn  fiddling  of  the 
Marriage  at  Cana  is  heard  along  the  silent  galleries  of  the 
Louvre  ('  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard  are 
sweeter ') !  yes ;  and  will  be  so  when  you  and  I  have  cleaned 
our  last  palette,  and,  '  in  the  darkness  over  us,  the  four-handed 
mole  shall  scrape.' " 

Paul  Veronese  and  his  contemporaries  knew  how  to  make 
their  works  last.  We  in  our  day  are  not  so  fortunate.  It  is 
sad  to  think  how  many  pictures  of  our  own  English  School 
are  gradually  fading  away;  how  many  men  have  put  their 
best  powers  into  pictures  which  are  now  (among  them  some 
of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  most  beautiful  creations)  rapidly 
becoming  "  ghosts  of  ghosts."  With  Turner  the  general  wreck 
is  more  complete.  "Turner,"  Constable  said,  "seems  to 
paint  with  tinted  steam, — so  evanescent,  and  so  airy."  Alas  ! 
evanescent  indeed.  Reynolds  devoted  much  time  and  atten- 
tion to  finding  out  durable  pigments.  Trying  to  discover  the 
secret,  he  even  cut  up  some  old  Italian  pictures.  It  was  a 
vain  quest.  The  old  masters  are  long  ago  buried,  and  they 
have  carried  their  secret  to  the  grave. 

Sadder  still  is  the  case  of  those  artists  whose  pictures 
themselves  have  not  faded,  but  the  fashion  for  whose  pictures 
has  gone.  Sir  Benjamin  West,  who  died  some  sixty  odd  years 
ago,  enjoyed  very  great  fame  during  his  life.  He  painted  many 

A  A  2 


356  THE  HEIRS  OF  THE  AGES  CHAP. 

large  historical  canvases,  all  painstaking,  and,  in  their  way, 
of  undoubted  merit.  They  gained  high  prices  in  their  day, 
and  are  now  mostly  consigned  either  to  cellars  or  to  the 
darkest  rooms  of  suburban  galleries. 

Time  is,  after  all,  the  greatest  of  art  critics,  and  its  judg- 
ment is  sure.  The  best  of  all  the  centuries  adorns  the 
walls  of  the  National  Museum.  It  is  the  best  only  that 
survives.  To  us,  in  all  our  painful  twentieth-century  newness, 
it  is  given  to  inherit  the  mystery  and  magic  of  the  old  Greeks 
and  Egyptians  ;  the  charming  imagery  of  Raphael,  filled  with 
simple  faith  and  sweet  imagination ;  the  quaint  beauty  of 
Botticelli,  and  of  the  early  Florentines,  whose  art  was  a  part 
of  their  life  ;  the  gay  voluptuousness  of  the  later  Venetians ; 
"the  courtly  Spanish  grace"  of  Velasquez;  the  charming 
affectations  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  shown  in  the  fair  ladies 
whose  portraits,  in  their  beauty,  once  filled  the  halls  of 
England.  All  is  given  to  us,  unsparingly.  For  us  and  for  the 
enrichment  of  the  walls  of  our  National  Gallery,  did  the  rude 
barbarians,  in  the  sack  of  Italian  cities,  stay  the  hand  of 
destruction ;  for  us  the  treasures  of  art  were  wrested 
from  many  a  palace  of  antiquity ;  it  was  for  the  delight  of 
thousands  of  modern  Londoners  that  the  monasteries  of  the 
Middle  Ages  were  plundered.  Altar-pieces  painted  for  adora- 
tion in  the  private  chapel  of  some  patron  saint  are  now  seen 
dimly,  through  London  fog  and  smoke,  hanging,  maybe,  next 
to  some  pagan  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,  or  Venus  and  the 
Loves.  For  our  sake  were  battles  fought,  to  include  master- 
pieces among  the  spoils ;  for  us  did  the  Italian  nobles  sell 
their  treasures  into  the  hands  of  money-lenders.  Could 
Botticelli,  that  fervent  follower  of  Savonarola,  he  who  "  worked 
and  prayed  in  silence,"  have  guessed  that  his  beloved  Nativity 
of  Christ  would,  centuries  hence,  be  removed  to  barbarous 
London,  and  be  stared  at  by  crowds  of  wondering  Philistines, 
who  should  see  in  it  only  the  curious  uncouthness  of  its 
gestures, — he  would,  surely,  have  held  his  hand, 


xiv  PICTURE-FANCIES  357 

The  National  Gallery  is  the  natural  haunt  of  such  dreams. 
Sitting  there  in  the  quickly-growing  twilight,  how  easily  it 
becomes  peopled  with  ghosts,  ghosts  even  more  intangible  than 
Reynolds's.  Our  thoughts  wander  back  into  the  past,  the 
walls  grow  dim,  they  seem  to  melt  away  into  distance ;  we 
hear  the  sound  of  music,  and  see  the  glimmer  of  gay  banners, 
as  Cimabue's  Madonna  is  carried  past,  amid  the  acclamation 
of  a  multitude  ;  or  a  gay  court  appears  before  our  eyes,  filled 
with  fine  ladies,  grandees,  and  inquisitors  ;  and,  apart  from  all, 
a  great  King  conversing  eagerly  with  a  little  dark  painter, 
whose  only  ornament,  beyond  his  lace  ruffles,  is  the  red  cross 
of  the  Order  of  Santiago  on  his  breast ;  or  we  seem  to  be  in 
Italy,  in  a  poetic  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  "  time  and  atmosphere, 
in  a  rich  noble's  house,  bright  with  splendid  hangings  and 
works  of  art ;  a  painted  wedding-chest,  or  cassone,  has  just 
been  presented,  on  the  occasion  of  a  marriage,  and  the  young 
bride  herself  gazes  down  lovingly  into  its  depths,  which  she 
has  just  stored  with  rich  silks  and  brocaded  velvets,  and  all 
her  treasures  ;  just  such  a  chest  as  Ginevra  might  have  hid  and 
perished  in  ;  just  such  a  bride  as  Ginevra  herself.  Or  the  scene 
changes  again  to  a  dusty  gallery  in  a  dingy  street,  with  a  little 
ugly  old  man  mounted  high  on  a  stool,  painting  furiously  away 
amid  a  horde  of  tailless  cats ;  and  anon  a  transformation,  and 
we  see  a  brilliant  illumination  of  Queen  Mab's  Grotto,  with 
fairies  in  wonderful  gondolas,  gliding  to  and  fro;  a  ball  in 
Venice.  .  .  .  We,  too,  are  invited,  but,  as  we  hesitate  to  trust 
ourselves  to  Turner's  airy  structures,  a  voice  sounds  in  our 
ear. — a  prosaic  voice,  however:  "  Closin' time,  ma'am,  closin' 
time  ! " 


CHAPTER   XV 

HISTORIC    HOUSES    AND    THEIR    TENANTS 

"  I  have  seen  various  places.  ,  .  .  which  have  been  rendered  interesting 
by  great  men  and  their  works  ;....!  seem  to  have  made  friends  with 
them  in  their  own  houses ;  to  have  walked  and  talked,  and  suffered  and 
enjoyed  with  them.  .  .  .Even  in  London  I  find  the  principle  hold  good  in 
me.  ...  I  once  had  duties  to  perform  which  kept  me  out  late  at  night, 
and  severely  taxed  my  health  and  spirits.  My  path  lay  through  a  neigh- 
bourhood in  which  Dryden  lived  ;  and  though  nothing  could  be  more 
commonplace,  and  I  used  to  be  tired  to  the  heart  and  soul  of  me,  I  never 
hesitated  to  go  a  little  out  of  my  way  purely  that  I  might  pass  through 
Gerrard  Street,  and  so  give  myself  the  shadow  of  a  pleasant  thought." — 

Leigh  Hunt. 

"  Our  houses  shape  themselves  palpably  on  our  inner  and  outer  natures. 
See  a  householder  breaking  up  and  you  will  be  sure  of  it.  There  is  a  shell- 
fish which  builds  all  manner  of  smaller  shell  into  the  walls  of  its  own.  A 
house  is  never  a  home  until  we  have  crusted  it  with  the  spoils  of  a  hundred 
lives  besides  those  of  our  own  past.  See  what  these  are  and  you  can  tell 
what  the  occupant  is." — Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

THE  most  curious  thing  about  London  houses,  and 
especially  characteristic  of  our  national  reserve,  is  the  fact  that 
we  can,  as  a  rule,  tell  nothing  at  all  about  them  until  we  get 
inside  the  sacred  enclosure.  A  Londoner's  house  is  the  shell 
that  hides  him  from  the  world ;  our  houses  are,  to  the  foreigner, 
as  enigmatic  and  as  exclusive  as  we  ourselves.  But,  once 
past  the  magic  gateway,  once  past  the  Cerberus  at  the  door, 
you  come  upon  an  interior  often  unguessed  and  undreamed  of. 
The  contrast  is  striking.  What  can  be  more  dully  monotonous, 


CH.  XV 


UNREVEALING  EXTERIORS 


359 


more  unromantic,  than  the  row  of  brick  and  stucco  house- 
fronts  that  face  the  average  large  square  or  street  ?  Yet  it  is  ten 
to  one  that,  inside,  hardly  one  of  these  will  exactly  resemble  the 
other,  either  in  taste,  architecture,  or  even  general  plan.  Even 
the  '•  long  unlovely  street"  of  Tennyson's  disapproval  may,  and 
does,  often  hide  unsuspected  treasures.  Who,  for  instance, 
would  suspect  the  existence  of  the  Greek  bas-reliefs,  the  painted 


At  the  Club. 

ceilings,  the  colonnades  and  statues  in  some  of  the  old 
Bloomsbury  houses?  Who  would  imagine  the  curious  "Soane 
Museum"  in  the  quiet  house  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields?  the 
dignified  Georgian  spaciousness  in  the  old  mansions  of 
Bedford  Square  ?  the  gorgeous  interior  of  the  sombre  houses  of 
Bruton  Street  ?  the  picture-galleries  of  Piccadilly  and  Mayfair  ? 
or  the  Eastern  magnificence  and  opulence  of  some  of  the 


360  SENTIMENT  AND  ASSOCIATION  CHAP. 

Park  Lane  mansions?  For  in  London,  as  a  rule,  there  are  but 
few  external  signs  to  denote  wealth.  Even  in  our  riches,  we  do 
not  wear  our  heart  on  our  sleeve.  From  a  survey  of  these,  as 
a  rule,  unimposing  fagades,  we  can  imagine  the  uninitiated 
foreigner  wondering  where  in  the  world  the  people  of  the 
richest  city  in  the  universe  live.  He  may,  even  if  intelligent, 
wander  at  large  through  London,  and  notice  nothing  of  beauty, 
or  even  of  interest.  Was  it  not  Madame  de  Stael  who,  lodged 
as  she  was  in  uninspiring  Argyll  Street,  said  unkindly,  but  not, 
perhaps,  without  some  reason,  with  regard  to  her  immediate 
surroundings  that  "  London  was  a  province  in  brick  "  ?  But 
London  houses  have  other  and  deeper  associations  than  those 
of  mere  riches  ;  the  association  with  mighty  spirits  of  the  past, 
poets  dead  and  gone,  great  men  of  action,  kings,  warriors, 
statesmen  ;  the  infinite  multitude  of  those  who,  "  being  dead, 
yet  live."  And  in  some  cases,  even  though  the  houses  them- 
selves have  vanished,  yet  the  places  where  they  stood  are  still 
sacred.  Thus, — though  it  is  perhaps  difficult  to  define  the  exact 
boundaries  of  the  old  Stuart  Palace  of  Whitehall,  or  to  say 
where  was  the  special  site  of  the  historic  Cockpit, — yet,  do  they 
not  lend  a  glory  and  an  attraction  to  all  the  district  of 
Westminster  ?  Do  not  the  purlieus  of  the  unromantic  Borough 
High  Street,  murky  as  these  often  are,  recall  Chaucer's  famous 
Tabard  Inn,  of  Canterbury  pilgrims'  fame  ?  and  does  not  the 
much-abused  Griffin,  on  its  Temple  Bar  pedestal,  memorialise 
the  older  and  too  obstructive  arch,  where  of  old  the  dreadful 
heads  of  political  scapegoats  were  displayed  ? 

Vanished,  and  every  year  still  vanishing,  treasures  !  Sooner 
or  later,  no  doubt,  the  edifices  made  sacred  '  by  history  and 
association  must  go  the  way  of  all  brick  and  masonry ;  yet  even 
such  landmarks  as  Turner's  poor  riverside  cottage  at  Chelsea, 
or  Carlyle's  modest  abode  in  Cheyne  Walk,  it  will  be  sad  to 
part  with.  That  curious  humanity  that  Charles  Dickens  gave  to 
houses  makes  itself  again  felt  in  their  fall ;  dwellings  are  not 
immortal,  any  more  than  were  their  great  occupants.  There  is 


xv  DISAPPEARING  LANDMARKS  361 

no  picturesque  decay  in  London  ;  what  is  not  of  use  must  go  ; 
it  dare  not  cumber  the  precious  ground.  Therefore,  the  few 
remaining  timbered  fronts  of  London  are  gone  or  going ;  only 
recently  some  picturesque  old  red-roofed  houses,  in  the  close 
vicinity  of  New  Oxford  Street,  were  condemned  and  destroyed  ; 
Staple  Inn,  indeed,  has  been  saved  and  patched  up,  owing  to  the 
prompt  action  of  a  band  of  public  benefactors.  Blocks  of 
houses,  forming  whole  streets,  are  continually  washed  away  in 
the  tide  of  progress ;  Parliament  Street  has  disappeared  ;  the 
old  Hanway  Street,  as  it  once  was,  has  lately  gone  ;  Holywell 
Street  is  of  the  past ;  the  demolition  of  this  latter,  though, 
indeed,  urgently  needed  for  the  widening  of  the  "  straits  "  of 
the  Strand,  was  riot  without  its  special  sadness.  The  decay  of 
houses  that  are  at  once  picturesque  and  historical  is,  of  course, 
doubly  afflicting  ;  yet  even  ugly  houses  often  retain  the  charm 
of  association  to  those  who  know  what  memories  are  bound  up 
with  them.  Here  romance  and  history  serve  to  lend  the 
beauty  that  is  lacking.  Thus,  Ruskin's  prosaic  home  in 
Hunter  Street,  Thackeray's  commonplace  mansion  in  Onslow 
Square  ;  the  house  in  Half  Moon  Street  where  Shelley  sat 
"  like  a  young  lady's  lark,"  in  a  projecting  window,  "  hanging 
outside  for  air  and  song  ; "  even  that  dark  corner  in  Mecklen- 
burgh  Square  where  Sala  kept  his  curios  and  bric-a-brac,  all 
have  their  peculiar  charm.  Dr.  Johnson's  house  in  Gough 
Square,  Fleet  Street;  the  so-called  "Old  Curiosity  Shop"  in 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  ;  John  Hunter's  house  in  Leicester  Square 
—are  all  threatened  with  demolition.  And,  even  apart  from 
historic  interest,  how  sad  is  the  frequent  fall  of  London's  old 
landmarks  !  Tottering  buildings,  mere  derelicts  of  time,  old 

houses 

"  whose  ancient  casements  stare, 
With  sad,  dim  eyes,  at  the  departing  years." 

Instinct  as  they  are  with  the  pathos  of  humanity,  the  sword 
of  Damocles  hangs  over  them  all. 

If  great  men's  houses,  or  the  houses  that  great  men  have  ever, 


362  BYWAYS  OF  FACT  AND  FICTION  CHAP. 

temporarily,  lived  in,  could  all  be  designated  by  some  unobtrusive 
memorial  tablet,  such,  for  instance,  as  the  Carlyle  bas  relief  at 
Chelsea, — or  even  a  plain  inscription  such  as  those  recently 
placed  on  John  Ruskin's  birthplace  in  Hunter  Street,  Reynolds's 
house  in  Leicester  Square,  and  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  in  St.  Martin's 
Street, — what  an  interest  would  it  not  lend  to  even  "  long  and 
unlovely  "  London  streets  !  For  the  romance  of  houses  is  not 
divined  by  instinct ;  and  even  the  taste  of  a  Morris  or  a  Rossetti 
has  not  always  left  its  mark  on  their  London  abodes.  That 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  John  Leech,  Darwin,  the  Rossettis, 
William  Morris,  have  all  lived  in  and  about  Bloomsbury,  is  not 
patent  to  the  casual  visitor.  Does  not  even  the  plain  inscrip- 
tion, *'  Poeta  Inglese,  Shelly,"  (sic)  lend  an  added  glamour  to 
the  Lung'  Arno  of  Pisa  ? 

The  dividing  line  between  history  and  fiction  is  not  always 
very  strongly  marked ;  and  this  leads  us  to  consider  yet  another 
aspect  of  the  question.  A  curious  literary  interest  sometimes 
attaches  to  certain  houses,  an  interest  hardly  less  deep  for  being 
partly,  or  even  purely,  fictitious.  Among  the  many  novelists 
who  have  made  themselves  responsible  for  this,  none,  perhaps, 
have  been  more  prominent  than  Charles  Dickens.  Dickens, 
whose  knowledge  of  London  was,  like  his  own  Sam  Weller's, 
"extensive  and  peculiar,"  has  invested  certain  houses, 
certain  localities,  with  an  almost  human  sentiment  and 
pathos.  Thackeray  has  also  done  much,  yet  not  so  much  as 
his  contemporary,  towards  making  London  stones  famous.  The 
tenants  of  "  historic  houses  "  in  this  sense — houses  on  whom 
these  and  other  writers  have  conferred  immortality — are,  of 
course,  merely  the  "ghosts  of  ghosts,"  and  yet,  how  real,  how 
persistent  are  they,  with  the  majority  of  us  !  Harry  Warrington 
enjoying  the  May  sun  from  his  pleasant  window  in  Bond  Street ; 
old  Colonel  Newcome  kneeling  among  the  "  Grey  Friars  "  of 
the  Charterhouse  ;  the  pretty  old  house  and  garden  in  Church 
Street,  Kensington,  where  Miss  Thackeray's  charming  heroine, 
Dolly,  lived ;  little  David  Copperfield  at  the  waterside 


xv  DR.  JOHNSON  363 

blacking  warehouse  ;  poor  weeping  Nancy  on  the  steps  of 
Surrey  Pier,  by  London  Bridge ;  ragged  Jo  at  the  grating  of 
the  squalid  burying-ground  :  they  and  their  sorrows  are  more 
real,  more  vivid,  to  us  than  the  actual  sufferings  of  the  boy 
Chatterton,  the  "  Titanic  "  agony  of  spoiled  Byron,  or  the  short 
glories  of  Lady  Jane  Grey.  And,  indeed,  when  we  call  to 
mind  the  gay  vision  of  the  "  ladies  of  St.  James's  "  taking  the 
air,  we  think  as  much  of  such  personages  as  Thackeray's 
beautiful  Beatrix,  wayward  and  heartless,  and  of  her  solemn 
cousin,  Colonel  Esmond, — as  of  Mrs.  Pepys,  in  her  noted 
"  tabby  suit,"  or  of  my  Lady  Castlemaine  herself,  in  all  her 
beauty,  attended  by  her  royal  admirer. 

Such  are  the  "  byways  of  fiction "  in  London  !  Next  to 
Dickens,  in  whose  persuasive  company  we  have  wandered 
from  Fact  to  Fiction/  Dr.  Johnson  is,  perhaps,  of  all  our  great 
Londoners,  the  most  prominent.  To  him,  indeed,  the  ever- 
lasting noise  and  bustle  of  the  capital,  "the  roaring  of  the 
loom  of  time,"  was  ever  dear.  Sayings  of  his  about  London 
have,  in  many  cases,  almost  passed  into  household  words : 
"  He  who  is  tired  of  London  is  tired  of  existence  " ;  "  Sir,  let 
us  take  a  walk  into  Fleet  Street " ;  *•'  I  think  the  full  tide  of 
existence  is  at  Charing  Cross."  Dr.  Johnson  had  a  great 
admiration  for  Fleet  Street,  which  he  thought  finer  than 
anything  he  knew.  The  old  doctor's  well-known  figure,  so 
often  painted,  in  the  ancient  lull-bottomed  wig,  and  rusty 
clothes,  yet,  for  us,  haunts  the  shades  of  the  Strand,  yet 
lingers  near  his  old  haunts,  fumbling  in  the  displayed  stores 
of  the  second-hand  book  shops.  "  The  old  philosopher  is 
still  among  us,  in  the  brown  coat  and  the  metal  buttons." 
Johnson's  London  houses, — Gough  Square,  Bolt  Court,  John- 
son's Court,  and  many  others ;  Johnson's  favourite  fleet  Street 
taverns,  notably  the  famous  "  Cheshire  Cheese,"  with  its  well- 
known  literary  coterie — these  are  almost  too  familiar  to  need 
description  ;  they,  and  the  Johnsonian  element  they  recall, 
are  bound  up  intimately  with  London's  eighteenth- century 


364  DR.  JOHNSON'S  LONDON  HOUSES  CH.  xv 

history.  There  is  scarcely  any  street  so  little  altered,  since 
then,  in  its  characteristics,  as  Fleet  Street.  And  if  the  Fleet 
Street  of  our  own  day,  with  its  still  irregular  houses,  its 
occasional  glimpses,  down  some  alley,  of  the  shining  river 
which  it  skirts,  is  picturesque, — what  must  it  have  been  in 
Johnson's  day,  when  its  shops  yet  displayed  their  gay  projecting 
signs  ?  when  "  timbered  fronts  "  and  gables  were  the  rule  ;  when 
the  charming  dress  of  the  day,  with  its  gay  satins  and  ruffles, 
knee  breeches  and  buckles,  was  the  mode  ?  Though,  for  that 
matter,  the  old  doctor  himself,  the  essential  spirit  of  the  Fleet 
Street  of  the  time,  can  hardly  have  been  a  fashionable  figure  : 

"It  must  be  confessed,"  says  Boswell,  ''that  his  ....  morning  dress 
was  sufficiently  uncouth.  His  brown  suit  of  clothes  looked  very  rusty  ;  he 
had  on  a  little  old  shrivelled,  unpowdered  wig,  which  was  too  small  for  his 
head  ;  his  shirt  neck  and  the  knees  of  his  breeches  were  loose,  his  black 
worsted  stockings  ill  drawn  up,  and  he  had  a  pair  of  unbuckled  shoes  by 
way  of  slippers." 

Doctor  Johnson  was,  indeed,  a  faithful  Londoner.  He  lived 
in  no  less  than  sixteen  London  houses  (among  them,  several 
"  Inns  "),  all  situated  in  and  around  Holborn  and  the  Strand. 
Nearly  all  of  these  abodes  have  now  disappeared,  or  are 
unidentified  ;  only  the  Gough  Square  house  still  exists.  It  is 
picturesque,  chiefly  on  account  of  its  age ;  it  stands  back  out 
of  Fleet  Street,  in  a  little  court,  and  has  been  often  sketched. 
It  is  a  corner  house,  numbered  seventeen  (marked  by  a  tablet), 
and  remains,  in  externals  at  least,  much  as  Johnson  left  it  140 
years  ago,  though  internally  it  is  a  network  of  dusty  offices. 
Johnson's  Court  (not  named  from  him),  where  he  also  lived, 
is  now  swallowed  up  in  "Anderton's  Hotel."  In  Gough 
Square  the  greater  part  of  the  celebrated  Dictionary  was 
written  ;  here  Johnson's  wife  died,  and  here  he  "  had  an  upper 
room  fitted  up  like  a  counting-house  in  which  he  gave  to  the 
copyists  their  several  tasks."  It  was,  however,  in  Bolt  Court, 
his  last  house,  that  the  curious  army  of  pensioners  lived  whom 
this  strange  old  scholar-philanthropist  collected  round  him  : 


Wych  Street. 


366  THE  '^CHESHIRE  CHEESE"  CHAP. 

"  His  strange  household  of  fretful  and  disappointed  alms-people  seems  as 
well  known  as  our  own.  At  the  head  of  these  pensioners  was  the  daughter 
of  a  Welsh  doctor  (a  blind  old  lady  named  Williams),  who  had  written  some 
trivial  poems ;  Mrs.  Desmoulins,  an  old  Staffordshire  lady,  her  daughter, 
and  a  Miss  Carmichael.  The  relationships  of  these  fretful  and  quarrelsome 
old  dames  Dr.  Johnson  has  himself  sketched,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Thrale  :  '  Williams  hates  everybody ;  Levett  hates  Desmoulins,  and  does 
not  love  Williams ;  Desmoulins  hates  them  both;  Poll  (Miss  Carmichael) 
loves  none  of  them." 

These  old  waifs  and  strays  were  not,  apparently,  even 
always  grateful.  But,  in  any  case,  the  annoyance  of  "  such  a 
menagerie  of  singular  oddities  "  must  have  driven  him  more  and 
more  to  his  clubs,  and  especially  to  his  favourite  haunt  the 
"  Cheshire  Cheese."  This  ancient  tavern,  still  existing  in  its 
pristine  simplicity  in  Wine  Office  Court,  "  and,"  says  Hare, 
"  the  most  perfect  old  tavern  in  London,"  is  the  classic 
retreat  where  Johnson  and  Goldsmith  held  their  court ; 
Johnson  in  the  window-seat,  and  Goldsmith  on  his  right  hand. 
To  American  tourists,  I  gather,  it  is  a  specially  sacred 
place  of  pilgrimage.  In  that  low,  dark,  sanded  parlour  of  the 
"  Cheshire  Cheese,"  you  might  easily  imagine  yourself  in  some 
rural  retreat,  miles  away  from  London,  though  so  close  in 
fact  to  the  din  and  civilisation  of  Fleet  Street.  Not  only  far 
from  London,  but  far  away  back  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
Can  such  things  be,  you  wonder,  in  the  London  of  our  day  ? 
You  sit  in  Johnson's  time-honoured  seat,  under  his  brass-plate 
inscription,  and  his  picture ;  darkened  oak  panelling  lines 
the  walls ;  artistic  Bohemians  blow  smoke-wreaths  over  their 
toasted  cheese  and  whiskies,  hilariously  in  yonder  corner; 
and  even  the  waiters  are  not  of  the  uncommunicative,  cut-and- 
dried  modern  sort,  but  rather  the  cheery,  jovial  order  of 
Dickens's  time.  One  of  them  brings  you  the  "  visitors' 
book "  ;  two  ponderous  tomes  filled  with  brilliant  sketches 
by  well-known  artists,  some  of  the  sketches  amiably  sugges- 
tive of  the  sketchers  having  supped  "  not  wisely,  but  too 
well " ;  another  tells  you.  with  all  the  pride  of  long  association, 


xv  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  367 

that  "the  place  has  not  changed  one  whit  since  Johnson's 
time "  ;  and  yet  a  third,  with  an  expansiveness  rare  indeed 
in  London,  will  point  out  to  you  "  Goldsmith's  favourite 
window-seat." 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  the  erratic  genius  who  "  wrote  like  an 
angel,  and  talked  like  poor  Poll,"  was  one  of  Johnson's 
satellites,  another  shining  light  of  old  Fleet  Street.  He  had 
the  artistic  temperament  indeed,  for  when  he  was  not  in  the 
clutches  of  the  bailiffs,  he  was  usually  revelling  in  absurd 
extravagance.  Goldsmith's  last  lodging,  in  No.  2,  Brick 
Court,  Temple,  he  furnished  with  ridiculous  lavishness, 
dressing  himself  to  match,  in  "  Tyrian-bloom  satin  with  gold 
buttons."  Dr.  Johnson  must  sometimes  have  been  tried  by 
his  friend,  as  the  following  story  shows :  (Newbery,  Gold- 
smith's publisher,  had  apparently  refused  further  advances  to 
his  impecunious  client)  : 

"  I  received  one  morning  "  (Boswell  represents  Johnson  to  have  said),  "  a 
message  from  poor  Goldsmith,  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was 
not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon 
as  possible.  T  sent  him  a  guinea  and  promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I 
accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had 
arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived 
that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a  bottle  of  Madeira 
and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be 
calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extri- 
cated. He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he 
produced  to  me.  I  looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merits,  told  the  landlady  I 
should  soon  return,  and,  having  gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  £60.  I 
brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without 
rating  his  landlady  in  a  high  tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill." 

The  MS.  was  that  of  The  Vicar  of  Wake  field,  but  the 
whole  picture  really  suggests  a  scene  from  Dickens's  Pickwick. 
Oliver  Goldsmith  acted  at  oile  time  as  "  reader "—  curious 
combination  ! — to  prim  old  Samuel  Richardson,  the  printer- 
novelist,  at  the  latter's  printing-office  in  the  south-west  corner 
of  Salisbury  Square,  communicating  with  the  court,  No.  76, 


368  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

Fleet  Street.  Richardson,  also,  had  once  befriended  Johnson, 
and  the  worthy  doctor  was  for  ever  praising  his  friend,  and 
abusing  his  compeer  in  fiction,  Henry  Fielding,  whom  he 
called  "a  barren  rascal." 

"Sir"  (said  Johnson),  "there  is  more  knowledge  of  the  heart  in  one 
letter  of  Richardson's  than  in  all  Tom  Jones.  Some  one  present  here 
remarked  that  Richardson  was  very  tedious.  "Why,  Sir,"  replied  Johnson, 
"if  you  were  to  read  Richardson  for  the  story,  your  impatience  would  be 
so  great  that  you  would  hang  yourself.  But  you  must  read  him  for  the 
sentiment,  and  consider  the  story  as  only  giving  occasion  to  the  sentiment." 

But  if  Richardson  is  tedious,  Johnson  was  nothing  if  not 
prejudiced ;  though,  after  all,  he  has  no  less  a  person  than 
Macaulay  on  his  side ;  Macaulay,  who  declared  that  were  he 
to  be  wrecked  on  a  desert  island  with  only  one  book,  he 
would  choose  Clarissa^  sentiment  and  all,  for  his  sole  delecta- 
tion. 

Hogarth,  the  painter,  it  is  said,  once  met  Johnson  at 
Richardson's  printing-office ;  when,  seeing  "  a  person  standing 
in  the  room  shaking  his  head  and  rolling  himself  about  in  a 
ridiculous  manner,  he  concluded  he  was  an  idiot,  whom  his 
relations  had  put  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Richardson  as  a  very  good 
man.  .  .  .  To  his  great  surprise,  however,  this  figure  stalked 
forward  to  where  he  was,  and  all  at  once  burst  into  an 
invective  against  George  II.  ...  Hogarth  looked  at  him  in 
astonishment,  and  actually  imagined  that  this  idiot  had  been  at 
the  moment  inspired." 

Richardson's  own  home  was,  however,  at  some  distance  from 
his  Fleet  Street  printing-office ;  as  far,  indeed,  as  North  End, 
Fulham.  His  house  there,  which  still  stands,  is  one  of  two  named 
"  The  Grange  "  ;  that  nearest  the  Hammersmith  Road.  Here,  in 
his  garden-house,  the  novelist  wrote  his  somewhat  long-winded 
romances,  indulged  his  amiable  vanity,  and  indited  his  letters, 
with  their  touches  of  playfully  elephantine  wit,  to  "  Lady 
Bradshaigh  "  and  his  other  fair  correspondents. 

It  is  this  very  house,  "  The  Grange,"  old-fashioned,  red-brick, 


xv  SIR  EDWARD  BURNE-JONES  369 

sedate,  that,  by  another  of  Fate's  curious  ironies,  was  for  twenty- 
seven  years  the  home  and  studio  of  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones. 
Strange  contrast,  indeed,  between  the  prosy,  fussy,  precise  old 
painter-novelist,  and  the  most  ideal  and  imaginative  of  our 
modern  painters  ! 

"When  the  painter  first  settled  here,  the  house  stood  in  the  midst  of 
fields  on  the  outskirts  of  London.  Now,  whole  rows  of  new  streets  have 
sprung  up  on  every  side,  the  fields  are  built  over,  and  omnibuses  and 
district  trains  have  their  stations  within  a  stone's  throw.  But  the  leafy  trees 
and  sheltered  garden  of  the  painter's  house  remain,  a  green  oasis  in  the 
sandy  waste.  From  the  noise  and  dust  of  crowded  thoroughfares  we  step 
into  the  quiet  garden  with  its  shady  lawns  and  gay  flower  borders,  its  fine 
old  mulberry-tree  and  rows  of  limes.  Here  snowdrops  and  crocuses 
blossom  in  the  early  spring,  and  later  in  the  year,  blue  irises  and  white 
lilies,  sunflowers  and  hollyhocks  grow  tall  under  the  ivied  wall.  And  here, 
at  the  end  of  the  garden,  among  the  flowers  and  leaves,  is  the  studio  where 
the  master  worked." 

Here,  then,  in  the  historic  "  garden-house,"  where  Richardson 
once  wrote,  and  received  his  friends  Hogarth  and  Johnson, 
was  Burne-Jones's  studio,  where  he  imagined  that 

"  land  of  clear  colours  and  stories 
In  a  region  of  shadowless  hours," 

described  by  Swinburne  the  poet  in  the  lovely  dedication  of 
his  poems  to  his  friend  and  Master  in  another  art,  begging 
that  they  may  find  place,  "for  the  love  of  lost  loves  and  lost 
times,"  in  the  painter's  created  paradise  ;  "  Receive,"  he  cries, 

"  in  your  palace  of  painting 
This  revel  of  rhymes." 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  Fleet  Street  to  Fulham,  whither  we  have 
wandered  in  company  of  Richardson  and  his  friends,  and  we  must 
retrace  our  steps.  All  these  sages  and  worthies  of  Fleet  Street 
were,  of  course,  more  or  less  connected  with  the  great  engine  of 
the  Press,  then  comparatively  in  its  childhood,  but  now,  though 
grown  to  mighty  dimensions,  occupying  still  the  same  sacred 
and  classic  ground.  The  Jupiters  of  the  Press  have  from  the 

B    B 


370  "THE  BERNERS  STREET  HOAX"  CHAP. 

first  wielded  their  sceptres  in  Fleet  Street  and  its  immediate 
neighbourhood.  And  not  only  the  newspaper  press,  but  all 
sorts  of  lampoons,  political  skits,  libellous  pamphlets,  and  the 
like,  had  here  their  home  in  early  days.  Here  that  meteoric 
and  unstable  wit,  Theodore  Hook,  devoted  his  misapplied 
genius  to  the  editing  of  the  then  scurrilous  journal  John  Bull, 
(a  paper  whose  metier  was  the  satirising  of  society) ;  his  favourite 
and  thoughtful  axiom  being  '  *  that  there  was  always  a  concealed 
wound  in  every  family,  and  the  point  was  to  strike  exactly  at  the 
source  of  pain."  The  primary  object  of  the  paper,  which  was 
started  in  "Johnson's  Court  "  in  1820,  was  the  slandering  of  the 
unfortunate  Queen  Caroline,  wife  of  George  IV.  The  death 
of  the  Queen  soon  reforming  the  John  Bull,  it  altered  to 
dulness,  and  declined  in  sale  ;  its  first  editor  is,  indeed,  now 
mainly  remembered  by  one  of  his  early  escapades,  the  famous 
"  Berners  Street  hoax."  This  was  a  wild  practical  joke  played 
on  a  harmless  widow  lady,  living  at  54,  Berners  Street.  Hook, 
it  seems,  had  made  a  bet  that  "  in  one  week  that  nice  quiet 
dwelling  should  be  the  most  famous  in  all  London  ;  "  and,  the 
bet  being  taken,  he  forthwith  wrote  many  hundred  letters  to 
tradesmen,  ordering  goods  and  visits  of  every  kind,  from  coals 
to  cranberry  tarts,  from  attorneys  to  popular  preachers.  The 
street  became,  of  course,  absolutely  blocked  with  traffic,  Hook 
himself  enjoying  the  '  *  midday  melodrama  "  from  an  apartment 
he  had  himself  hired  in  a  house  opposite.  Such  wholesale 
destruction  was  the  result  that  the  enfant  terrible,  being 
suspected,  had  to  sham  illness,  until  the  affair  had  blown 
over. 

Theodore  Hook  was  a  Londoner  of  the  Londoners,  with  "a 
gigantic  intellect  and  no  morals,"  added  to  the  peculiar 
resourcefulness  and  adaptability  of  the  typical  cockney. 
Nevertheless,  even  this  unprincipled  buffoon  and  wit,  petted  by 
royalty  and  fashion,  and  left  to  die,  a  drunken  worn-out  spend- 
thrift at  last — must,  he,  too,  have  had  his  bad  moments.  There 
is  a  peculiar  and  haunting  horror  attaching  to  the  story  (told  in 


XV  JOHN  RUSKIN  371 

his  Life  and  Letters],  of  how,  when  passing  by  his  birthplace 
in  Charlotte  Street,  Bloomsbury,  Hook  pointed  to  a  spot  nearly 
opposite  the  house  where  he  was  born,  saying,  "  Thereby  that 
lamp-post  stood  Martha  the  Gypsy." 

The  Strand,  still  picturesque,  narrow,  and  tortuous,  is  now 
nearly  entirely  given  up  to  shops,  newspaper  offices  and  theatres  ; 
but  at  No.  149  (once  a  lodging-house  and  now  a  news- 
paper office),  the  actress  Mrs.  Siddons  stayed  when  she  first 
came  up  to  London,  and  here  she  supped  joyfully  with  her  father 
and  husband,  to  celebrate  her  first  London  success.  Less  changed 
is  the  historic  Temple,  where  that  constant  Londoner,  Charles 
Lamb,  lived  so  long,  and  of  which  he  has  left  us  such  lovely 
descriptions.  Indeed,  Charles  Lamb  is  one  of  those  Londoners 
of  whom,  like  Dickens,  Milton,  and  Johnson,  it  is  difficult  to 
say  where  they  have  not  lived  in  the  great  metropolis.  Milton, 
perhaps,  is,  however,  an  extreme  case  ;  for  he  not  only  lived  in 
a  score  of  different  residences,  but  further  puzzles  the  con- 
scientious topographer  by  being  married  in  three  different 
churches  and  buried  piecemeal ;  having  been  also  disinterred 
at  various  times,  and  his  remains  scattered,  — a  thing  manifestly 
unfair  to  the  future  historian. 

Ruskin,  also,  the  latter-day  apostle  and  critic,  has  been  very 
catholic  in  his  London  dwellings.  Born  in  humble  Hunter 
Street,  Bloomsbury,  he  migrated  later  with  his  parents  to  Herne 
Hill  and  Denmark  Hill,  with  a  short  interlude  of  married  life  in 
Park  Street.  The  Denmark  Hill  house,  so  far  from  the  centre  of 
things  as  to  be  almost  suburban,  is  yet  a  goal  of  pilgrimage  to 
Ruskin's  faithful  disciples.  Denmark  Hill,  now  so  overbuilt, 
so  lined  and  scored  with  railways,  was,  some  sixty  years  ago, 
still  a  very  desirable  residential  region.  Does  not  Thackeray 
locate  his  Misses  Dobbin,  Amelia's  Major's  sisters,  there? — in 
that  fine  villa,  too,  with  "beautiful  graperies  and  peach-trees," 
which  delighted  little  Georgy  Osborne.  The  smaller  house  on 
Herne  Hill,  where  little  John  Ruskin  spent  his  boyhood,  is  at  the 
present  day  unattractive  enough  ;  but  the  Denmark  Hill  villa 

B  B  2 


372  RUSKIN  AND  DENMARK  HILL  <  MAP. 

near  by,  taken  later  when  the  family  launched  out,  has  still  its 
charm.  It,  too,  is  a  "  fine  villa,"  or  rather  country  mansion, 
not  unlike  the  description  of  the  Misses  Dobbin's  abode,  and, 
like  it,  full  of  peach-trees  that,  growing  on  old  walls,  still  bear 
abundantly.  Readers  of  Prceterita  will  remember  how,  when 
Mr.  Ruskin  became  "  of  age,  and  B.A.,  and  so  on,"  his  father 
and  mother  decided  on  moving  that  short  way  to  the  larger 
house  ;  and  how  "  everybody  said  how  wise  and  proper"  ;  and 
how  "  the  view  from  the  breakfast-room  into  the  field  was  really 
very  lovely  "  ;  and  how  the  family  lived  for  some  quarter  of  a 
century  here  in  much  "  stateliness  of  civic  domicile." 

" The  house  itself "  (says  Mr.  Ruskin)  "had  every  good  in  it,  except 
nearness  to  a  stream,  that  could  with  any  reason  be  coveted  by  modest 
mortals.  It  stood  in  command  of  seven  acres  of  healthy  ground.  .  .  . 
half  of  it  in  meadow  sloping  to  the  sunrise, the  rest  prudently  and  pleasantly 
divided  into  an  upper  and  lower  kitchen  garden  ;  a  fruitful  bit  of  orchard, 
and  chance  inlets  and  outlets  of  woodwalk,  opening  to  the  sunny  path  by 
the  field,  which  was  gladdened  on  its  other  side  in  springtime  by  flushes 
of  almond  and  double  peach  blossom.  Scarce  all  the  hyacinths  and  heath 
of  Brantwood  redeem  the  loss  of  these  to  me  ;  and  when  the  summer  winds 
have  wrecked  the  wreaths  of  our  wild  roses,  I  am  apt  to  think  sorrowfully 
of  the  trailings  and  climbings  of  deep  purple  convolvulus  which  bloomed 
full  every  autumn  morning  round  the  trunks  of  the  apple  trees  in  the 
kitchen  garden." 

That  hedge  of  almond  blossom  is  stiil  gay  in  spring,  and  the 
"shabby  tide  of  progress"  has  not  touched  the  old  house, 
which,  garden,  field,  orchard  and  all,  is  still  virtually  the  same 
as  it  was  in  Ruskin's  time.  No.  163,  Denmark  Hill/ is  its 
designation ;— a  big,  roomy,  detached  mansion,  a  real  "rus  in 
urbe."  Much  like  other  large  suburban  villas,  the  house  itself; 
yet  this  is  the  spot  whence  emanated  Modern  Painters,  that 
early  work  of  genius  that  assured  the  young  writer's  fame. 
There  is  the  "  study  "  that  Mr.  Ruskin  used,  his  "  workroom 
above  the  breakfast-room  " ;  there,  above  it  again,  is  his  bed- 
room, looking  straight  south-east,  giving  "command  of  the 
morning  clouds,  inestimable  for  its  aid  in  all  healthy  thought." 


xv  LORD  BEACONSFIELD  ANT)  MAVFAIR 


373 


There,  still,  is  the  little  reservoir  made  by  Mr.  Ruskin  in 
engineering  zeal,  a  canal  said  by  the  neighbours  to  have  cost 
£$  every  time  he  had  it  filled,  in  vain  attempt  to  make  a 
little  rivulet,  or  Alpine  sluice,  for  watering!  For,  although 
"of  age  and  a  B.A.,"  the  chief  reason,  as  Mr.  Ruskin  in- 
genuously confesses,  why  his  soul  yearned  for  the  Denmark 
Hill  house,  was,  that  "  ever  since  I  could  drive  a  spade,  I  had 
wanted  to  dig  a  canal,  and  make  locks  on  it,  like  Harry  in  "  Harry 
and  Lucy."  And  in  the  field  at  the  back  of  the  Denmark 
Hill  house  I  saw  my  way  to  a  canal  with  any  number  of  locks 
down  to  Dulwich."  ....  "But,"  he  adds  sorrowfully,  "I 
never  got  my  canal  dug,  after  all !  The  gardeners  wanted  ajl 
the  water  for  the  greenhouse.  I  resigned  myself.  .  .  .  yet  the 
bewitching  idea  never  went  out  of  my  head,  and  some  water- 
works were  verily  set  aflowing  twenty  years  afterwards." 

Yet,  be  the  actual  bricks  and  mortar  never  so  prosaic,  there 
is  a  strange  fascination  about  the  dwellings  where  great  men 
have  lived  and  died.  Benjamin  Disraeli  was  born,  like 
Ruskin,  in  the  shades  of  Bloomsbury,  and,  again  like  him, 
migrated,  later,  to  Mayfair  on  his  marriage.  The  late  Lord 
Beaconsfield  remained,  however,  always  faithful  to  the  West 
End.  In  his  Park  Lane  house  (No.  29)  he  lived  over  thirty 
years ;  removing  then  to  No.  2,  Whitehall  Gardens,  and 
finally  dying,  after  a  short  tenancy,  at  1 9,  Curzon  Street.  It 
was  a  cold  and  inclement  spring,  a  blast  of  Kingsley's  much 
belauded  "north-easter,"  to  which  he  succumbed.  That 
unassuming  house  in  Curzon  Street  was,  for  the  moment,  the 
world's  centre.  "  It  was  half-past  six  in  the  morning  that  the 
final  bulletin  of  the  dying  statesman's  condition  was  placed  on 
the  railings  to  inform  the  crowd  who,  even  at  that  early  hour, 
waited  for  intelligence." 

Mr.  Gladstone,  too,  has  had  as  many  London  houses  as  his 
great  rival,  with  perhaps,  stormier  residences  in  them.  There 
is  the  house,  for  instance,  in  Harley  Street,  where  the  mob 
smashed  the  great  man's  windows  at  the  time  of  his  unpopularity 


374  DOWNING  STREET  CHAP. 

over  the  Eastern  question.  And  No.  10,  Carlton  House  Terrace, 
is  the  mansion  where  he  lived  for  so  many  years  at  the  zenith 
of  his  fame.  Is  his  spirit,  I  wonder,  clean  vanished,  forgotten 
there,  and  does  no  record  of  him  remain  ?  Perhaps  the  militant 
spirits  of  Disraeli  and  Gladstone  still  linger,  if  anywhere, 
about  Downing  Street ;  that  narrow  street  of  which  Carlyle  says 
that  "  it  is  evident  to  all  men  that  the  interests  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  millions  of  us  depend  on  the  mysterious  industry 
there  carried  on  " ;  and  where  No.  10,  that  dingy  old  house  which 
has  been  the  temporary  home  of  successive  Prime  Ministers, 
as  well  as  the  official  head-quarters  of  the  Government,  "  focuses 
more  historic  glamour  than  any  other  house  in  London." 
Hook  said  wittily  of  Downing  Street : 

"  There  is  a  fascination  in  the  air  of  this  little  cul-de-sac  ;  an  hour's 
inhalation  of  its  atmosphere  affects  some  men  with  giddiness,  others  with 
blindness,  and  very  frequently  with  the  most  oblivious  boastfulness." 

Lord  Rosebery  used  10,  Downing  Street,  for  official 
purposes ;  Lord  Salisbury  did  not  use  it  at  all.  Many 
historic  scenes  have  been  enacted,  and  many  momentous 
questions  settled,  within  its  walls.  It  was  in  its  entrance  hall, 
trodden  by  the  feet  of  successive  generations  of  politicians,  that 
Wellington  and  Nelson  met  for  the  only  time  in  their  lives, 
both  waiting  to  see  the  Minister,  and  neither  knowing  who 
the  other  was.  They  naturally  entered  into  conversation,  but 
it  was  not  until  afterwards  that  they  knew  to  whom  they  had 
been  speaking.  The  house  itself  is  solid  and  substantial, 
without  any  architectural  attractiveness,  and  to  the  casual 
observer  suggests  nothing  different  from  thousands  of  other 
London  dwellings.  From  the  outside,  no  one  would  imagine 
it  to  be  commodious,  but  it  has  some  very  large  apartments  ; 
and  the  old  council  chamber,  the  principal  features  of  which 
are  the  book-lined  walls,  massive  pillars,  and  heavy,  solid 
furniture,  remains  much  as  it  was  in  Walpole's  day.  Here 
many  conferences  of  Ministers  have  been  held,  and  the  most 


xv  SIR  JOHN  SOANE'S  MUSEUM  375 

delicate  affairs  of  State  settled.  The  Cabinet  Councils  have, 
however,  not  always  been  held  here.  Mr.  Gladstone  preferred 
to  hold  them  in  his  own  more  cosy  room  on  the  floor  above  ; 
and  Lord  Salisbury  preferred  to  hold  them  at  the  Foreign 
Office.  Next  door  is  the  official  residence  of  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer.  The  entrance  to  the  Foreign  Office  and 
the  Colonial  Office  is  opposite.  Which  of  these  great  buildings, 
with  their  numerous  passages  and  annexes  and  waiting-rooms, 
is  the  original  of  Dickens's  "  Circumlocution  Office,"  it  would 
be  invidious  even  to  attempt  to  discover. 

Nowhere  is  the  curious  unexpectedness  of  London  houses 
better  exemplified  than  in  the  building  known  as  Sir  John 
Soane's  Museum,  on  the  north  side  of  the  square  called 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  Here  to  all  seeming,  stands  an  ordinary 
dwelling-house  ; — its  front,  it  is  true,  somewhat  of  the  ornate 
kind, — but  utterly  misleading,  so  far  as  its  outer  appearance  is 
concerned,  to  the  passer-by.  Nor  does  the  illusion  stop  at  the 
hall-door.  For  there  is  here  an  air  of  homely  friendliness,  of 
quiet  welcome,  that  is  altogether  at  variance  with  any  precon- 
ceived ideas  that  the  visitor  may  have  formed  about  museums 
in  general.  Several  dignified  family  servants  of  irreproachable 
demeanour  lie  in  wait  for  the  stranger  and  kindly  escort  him 
round.  It  is  not  till  you  have  passed  the  Rubicon  of  the  double 
dining-room,  yet  arranged  exactly  as  in  the  lifetime  of  the 
founder,  that  you  begin  to  realise  that  you  are  in  a  museum,  not 
in  a  private  mansion.  And  the  realisation  is  even  then  difficult, 
for  the  family  butlers  have  a  familiar  way  of  alluding  to  "  Sir 
John,"  the  donor,  as  though  he  were  alive  and  in  the  next 
room,  thus  : 

"  Sir  John  gave  ^"140  for  these  Hogarths,"  says  the  Chief 
Butler,  indicating  the  well-known  Rake  series,  and  speaking 
with  a  degree  of  intimacy  of  "Sir  John"  that  positively 
startled  me,  till  I  remembered  that  the  gentleman  in  question 
died  some  sixty  years  ago. 

"  Oh,  er,  very  Hogarthian  !  "  I   remark   somewhat  bashfully, 


376  A  POST-MORTEM  JOKE  CHAP. 

for  indeed  the  pictures  are  hardly  all  of  them  pleasing  to  the 
uninitiated.  "I  wonder  that  Sir  John  could  like  to  live  with 
them  !  " 

"Yes,  indeed!  some  of  them  are  very  gross,"  says  the 
Mentor ;  and  I  almost  wish  that  I  had  held  my  peace. 

The  panels  of  the  mysterious  room  that  contains  the  Hogarths 
afford  a  wonderful  example  of  how  to  hang  many  pictures  in  a 
limited  space.  They  open  at  the  touch  of  a  spring,  disclosing 
not  only  inner  walls  of  pictures,  but  also  their  own  inner 
sides  similarly  adorned.  Through  the  walls  thus  magically 
opened  a  glimpse  is  obtained  of  a  little  basement  room  called 
"  The  Monk's  Parloir,"  adorned  with  carving  and  statuary. 
Sir  John  Soane  was,  of  course,  the  architect  of  the  existing 
Bank  of  England,  and  interesting  architectural  drawings, 
beside  innumerable  imaginary  palaces  by  him,  abound  in  the 
museum.  The  chief  treasure  of  the  collection,  the  hieroglyphic- 
covered  alabaster  sarcophagus  of  Seti  L,  father  of  the  great 
Rameses,  lies  in  the  basement ;  which  is,  indeed,  entirely  filled 
with  works  of  "  antiquity  and  virtue  " ;  the  "  backs  "  and  base- 
ments of  three  adjoining  houses  being  utilised  for  the  required 
space.  To  judge  from  the  wide  variety  among  the  objects 
collected,  Sir  John  Soane  must  have  been  a  man  of  cosmo- 
politan tastes,  and  possessed  of  an  interesting  personality. 
Perhaps  he  found  some  comfort  in  art  for  the  tragedies  of  his 
later  life ;  for  his  two  sons  (whose  quaint  portraits,  in  youthful 
blue  and  silver,  are  to  be  seen  in  the  museum)  died  in  his 
lifetime.  At  any  rate,  that  Sir  John  was  a  man  of  some 
humour  seems  to  be  sufficiently  attested  by  the  curious  post- 
mortem joke  that  he  perpetrated  on  his  trustees  !  For,  when 
leaving  his  treasures  to  the  nation,  and  specifying  especially 
that  the  house  was  to  be  left  precisely  as  he  had  lived  in  it,  he 
appended  to  his  will  three  codicils,  directing  that  three 
mysterious  sealed  cupboards  in  his  museum-house  should  not 
be  opened  till  respectively  thirty,  fifty,  and  sixty  years  after  his 
death  !  This  was  accordingly  done,  expectation  rising  higher 


xv  THE  LEIGHTON  HOUSE  377 

in  each  decade ;  and  lo !  on  each  occasion  nothing  was 
found  but  a  few  worthless  papers,  relating  either  to  antiquated 
accounts,  or  to  still  more  antiquated  family  disagreements  ! 

There  is,  at  the  present  time,  despite  the  encroachments  of 
a  modern  and  generally  iconoclastic  London,  now  a  wholesome 
spirit  of  veneration  abroad,  which  tends  not  only  towards  the 
reservation  of  ancient  and  historical  buildings,  but  also  towards 
the  acquisition  of  the  homes  that  have  been  lived  in  and  made 
beautiful  by  the  celebrated  men  of  our  own  day.  Of  this  kind  is 
"  Leighton  House,"  bought  since  Lord  Leighton's  death  by  the 
iffort  of  a  private  committee,  and  now  opened  free  to  the 
nation.  The  rooms  and  internal  arrangement  are,  as  in  the 

je  of  the  "  Carlyle  House,"  left  as  nearly  as  possible  in  their 
>riginal  condition,  and  tho'ugh  of  necessity  much  of  the  valu- 
ible  furniture  and  accessories  have  been  removed,  yet  the  many 
sketches  and  drawings  illustrative  of  the  painter's  life-work 
that  fill  the  walls  do  something  to  dispel  the  unavoidable  sense 
)f  incompleteness.  It  is  interesting  to  wander  through  the 
beautifully-proportioned  rooms,  to  gaze  into  the  well-tended,  sun- 
lit garden.,  with  its  gay  geranium  beds  and  its  green  lawn  ;  to  sit 
in  the  mysterious  semi-darkness  of  the  "  Arab  Hall,"  and  look 
up  into  its  gold-encrusted  dome ;  to  listen  to  the  mournful 

)lash    of   the  tiny  fountain  in  its   marble    basin; — and   yet, 
"  wanting  is — what  ?  " 

"  When  the  lamp  is  shattered 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead." 

It  will  always  be  a  question  how  far  the  mere  dwelling  of  a 
great  painter  is  worth  thus  preserving  in  its  integrity,  when 
once  the  magic  of  his  presence,  his  genius,  has  deserted  it,  and 
the  growing  work  of  his  art  no  longer  adorns  its  walls.  The 
committee  of  the  "  Leighton  House "  have  done  their  work 
with  judgment  and  care,  and,  if  the  inevitable  comparison 
occurs  to  those  who  saw  it  in  the  life-time  or  during  the  "  show 
days "  of  its  late  master,  of  former  life  and  splendour  with 
present  gloom  and  sadness,  this  is  only  in  the  nature  of  things. 


378  LONDON  PALACES  CHAP. 

The  blue  tiles  that  the  painter  loved  still  adorn,  in  bird-of-para- 
dise  like  splendour,  the  wide,  massive  staircase ;  the  water  still 
tinkles  in  the  Pompeian  atrium  as  of  old  ;  and  the  master's  art 
can  still  be  studied  in  the  many  drawings  and  reproductions 
that  fill,  so  far  as  they  can,  the  places  left  by  greater  works. 

Hertford  House,  in  Manchester  Square,  the  sumptuous  home 
of  the  Wallace  collection,  bequeathed  to  the  nation  by  Lady 
Wallace  in  1898,  is  the  most  important  of  the  nation's  artistic 
legacies.  Though  in  a  sense  historic — for  it  is  the  "  Gaunt 
House  "  of  Vanity  Fair,  and  its  former  owner,  Lord  Hertford, 
was  caricatured  as  the  Marquis  of  Steyne ; — yet,  as  it  is  mainly 
as  a  picture  gallery  that  it  must  be  noticed,  it  has  fallen  most 
conveniently  into  a  previous  chapter. 

But  the  historical  houses  of  London  are  innumerable,  and 
my  space  is  but  limited.  History  is  written  in  many  kinds. 
And  the  greater  portion  of  the  fine  houses  of  the  metropolis, 
the  palaces  of  Mayfair,  Pall  Mall,  Kensington,  possess  historic 
interest  of  their  own  ;  interest,  indeed,  often  unknown  and 
unsuspected  by  any  but  the  privileged  few,  because  unvisited 
and  generally  inaccessible.  Of  these  are  Chesterfield  House, 
in  South  Audley  Street,  the  home  of  the  author  of  the  famous 
Letters,  where  the  poor  scholar  Johnson  waited  patiently  for 
interviews  with  his  noble  patron  ;  Apsley  House, — the  pillared 
fagade  of  which  is  so  well  known  to  travellers  on  the  humble 
omnibus  as  it  passes  Hyde  Park  Corner, — the  abode  of  the 
"  Iron  Duke,"  that  old  man  in  the  blue  coat  and  white  trousers, 
to  the  last  the  people's  idol,  whose  daily  appearances,  in  old  age, 
were  here  awaited  patiently  by  expectant  crowds  ;  Lansdowne 
House,  Devonshire  House,  Sutherland  House,  Bridgewater 
House,  splendid  mansions  on  or  near  the  "  Green  Park,"  famed, 
like  so  many  others,  for  their  picture  galleries  ;  Sutherland 
House,  often  now  hospitably  thrown  open  for  gatherings  of 
"  the  people,"  is  said  to  be  the  finest  private  mansion  in  London  : 
"  I  have  come,"  a  Queen  is  reported  to  have  said  to  a  former 
Duchess  of  Sutherland,  "  from  my  house  to  your  palace." 


XV  HAUNTED  HOUSES  379 

Many  of  the  splendid  old  mansions  of  Stuart  times  have, 
indeed,  gone  ;  yet  in  some  instances  they  have  risen  again 
from  their  ashes  to  new  spheres  of  interest.  Thus,  old 
Montague  House  in  Bloomsbury,  old  Burlington  House  in 
Piccadilly,  old  Somerset  House  in  the  Strand,  have  been 
rebuilt  and  utilised  by  Government  as  National  Collections  or 
offices.  Where  lovely  ladies  of  the  Restoration  trailed  their 
sheeny  silks  in  Lely-like  voluptuousness,  where  court  gallants 
presented  odes,  and  court  dandies  took  snuff  and  patronage, 
now  sweet  girl  graduates  pace  the  galleries,  spectacled  lady- 
students  copy  "old  masters,"  Academy  pupils  study  "the 
antique."  The  contrast  is  picturesque  as  well  as  strange. 
Does  one  not  sometimes,  as  twilight  falls,  seem  to  hear  the 
ghostly  "  swish  "  of  the  court  beauties'  dresses  along  a  deserted 
British  Museum  Gallery,  or  seem  to  see  in  a  stone  Venus, 
with  uplifted  arm,  an  insufficiently  clad  fair  lady  of  the  olden 
time  ?  It  is  but  fancy,  yet  such  is  the  charm  of  history  and  of 
historic  association. 

Ghosts  of  our  own  fancy  may,  and  do,  wander  at  their  will 
in  London's  misty  galleries  ;  but  ghosts,  better  authenticated, 
are  popularly  supposed  to  haunt  a  few  of  London's  old  houses. 
Thus,  No.  50,  in  Berkeley  Square  has  gained  undesirable  notoriety 
as  the  "  Haunted  House,"  and  many  extraordinary  tales  have 
from  time  to  time  been  told  as  to  its  ghostly  manifestations. 
Berkeley  Square  has,  undeniably,  a  solid  and  old-time  look 
that  fits  in  well  with  the  gloomy  tradition  ;  it  has  the  best  and 
most  ancient  plane-trees  of  any  London  square,  and  its  fine 
old  iron-work,  with  occasional  torch-extinguishers  (used  by 
the  "  link-boys "  of  sedan  chairs  in  Stuart  times),  are  all  in 
keeping  with  the  old-world  spirit.  Nevertheless,  Berkeley 
Square  has  other  and  sadder  associations  than  those  of  mere 
ghosts.  For  in  No.  45,— a  house  specially  noted  for  its  good 
iron-adornments, — the  great  Lord  Clive,  founder  of  the  British 
Empire  in  India,  committed  suicide  in  1774.  "In  the  awful 
close,"  says  Macaulay,  "of  so  much  prosperity  and  glory," 


380  LITERARY  ASSOCIATIONS  CHAP. 

some  men  only  saw  the  horrors  of  an  evil  conscience  ;  but 
Clive  from  early  youth  had  been  subject  to  '•  fits  of  strange 
melancholy,"  while  now  his  strong  mind  was  sinking  under 
physical  suffering,  and  he  took  opium  for  a  distressing 
complaint. 

*  In  Berkeley  Square  (No.  38)  is  the  town  house  of  Lord 
Rosebery,  once  the  residence  of  Lady  Jersey,  and  the  place 
whence  her  mother, — the  daughter  of  Child,  the  banker, — 
eloped  to  marry  the  Earl  of  Westmorland,  in  1782. 

It  were,  however,  an  invidious,  as  well  as  an  impossible  task, 
to  name  all  London's  historic  houses.  What  street  in  London 
is,  indeed,  not  "historic"  in  a  sense?  Houses  may  be  pulled 
down,  but  even  thus  their  locality  knows  them  still.  Is  not 
even  Turner  the  painter's  squalid,  dirty  house  in  Queen  Anne 
Street,  now  razed,  yet  recalled  to  the  passer-by,  by  the  tablet 
affixed  to  the  houses  that  have  since  sprung  up  on  its  site  ? 
"  Unlovely  "  Wimpole  Street  is  sacred  to  the  shade  of  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning,  that  "  small,  pale  person,  scarcely  embodied 
at  all."  It  was  from  this  house,  No.  50,  that  she  wrote  her 
impassioned  love-letters,  and,  after  years  of  chronic  invalidism, 
ran  away,  secretly  and  romantically,  to  marry  a  brother-poet. 
The  picturesque  chambers  known  as  "  the  Albany," — a  byway 
out  of  Piccadilly,— recall  Lord  Macaulay,  Lord  Byron,  Lord 
Lytton.  Curzon  Street  suggests  the  famous  parties,  in  the 
early  nineteenth  century,  of  the  sisters  Mary  and  Agnes  Berry, 
the  friends  of  Horace  Walpole.  In  Soho,  — a  district  famous  in 
old  days  for  an  artistic,  and  semi-Bohemian  fraternity,  whose 
houses  emulated  Turner's  in  dirt,— lived  the  painters  Northcote, 
Mulready,  Fuseli,  Stothard,  — and  Flaxman  the  sculptor.  At 
28,  Poland  Street,  lived  William  Blake,  the  poet-painter,  the  half- 
crazy,  but  wholly  charming,  seer  and  mystic ;  here  he  wrote  his 
Songs  of  Experience  and  of  Innocence,  and  drew  his  Visionary 
Portraits.  (The  story  of  Blake  and  his  wife,  "  reciting  passages 
from  Paradise  Lost,  and  enacting  Adam  and  Eve,  in  character," 
belongs,  however,  not  to  dingy  gardenless  Poland  Street,  but 


xv  THE  ROMANCE  OF  LONDON  3Si 

to  Hercules  Buildings,  then  a  modest  Lambeth  suburb).  In 
Poland  Street,  in  1811,  lived  also  Shelley  in  early  youth,  with 
his  friend  and  biographer  Hogg  ;  the  latter  being  attracted,  says 
Shelley,  by  the  name  of  the  street,  "  because  it  reminded  him 
of  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  and  freedom  " : 

"A  paper  (says  Hogg)  in  the  window  of  No.  15  announced  lodgings 
.  .  .  .  '  We  must  lodge  there,  should  we  sleep  even  on  the  step  of  a 
door.'  .  .  .Shelley  took  some  objection  to  the  exterior  of  the  house,  but  we 
went  in.  .  .  .There  was  a  back  sitting-room  on  the  first  floor,  somewhat 
dark  but  quiet,  yet  quietness  was  not  the  prime  attraction.  The  walls  of 
the  room  had  lately  been  covered  with  trellised  paper.  .  .  .This  was 
delightful.  He  went  close  to  the  wall  and  touched  it.  '  We  must  stay 
here  ;  stay  for  ever.'  Shelley  had  the  bedroom  opening  out  of  the  sitting 
room,  and  this  also  was  overspread  with  the  trellised  paper." 

But  every  part  of  London  has  its  historic  interest — is,  in  a 
sense,  a  city  peopled  by  the  dead.  "Where'er  you  tread  is 
haunted,  holy  ground."  That  spot,  in  that  quiet,  narrow  street, — 
Mayfair,  Bloomsbury,  Soho  or  Westminster, — where  you  chance 
to  live,  and  toil,  and  suffer,  and  enjoy, — has  known  many  others 
in  its  time,  — others  before  you;  men  in  stocks,  and  wigs,  and 
laced  ruffles,  and  knee-breeches  \  women  in  brocades,  ruffs,  and 
farthingales ;  children  in  long  stiff  skirts  and  prim  stomachers ; 
who,  in  their  turn,  likewise  lived,  and  toiled,  and  enjoyed,  and 
suffered.  ...  Is  it  not  this  romance  of  London,  this  mysterious 
past  life  of  hers,  guessed  and  unguessed,  that  makes  us  welcome, 
and  recognise  as  real  friends,  the  types  of  a  Thackeray,  a  Dickens? 
See,  for  instance,  how  a  mere  allusion  to  Thackeray  puppets 
serves  to  immortalise  with  a  touch,  the  prosaic,  if  fashionable, 
Clarges  and  Bond  Streets :  Clarges  Street,  "  where  Beatrix 
Bernstein  held  her  card  parties,  her  Wednesday  and  Sunday 
evenings,  save  during  the  short  season  when  Ranelagh  was  open 
on  a  Sunday,  where  the  desolate  old  woman  sat  alone,  waiting 
hopelessly  for  the  scapegrace  nephew  that  her  battered  old 
heart  had  learned  to  love." 

'  Here,  Baroness  Bernstein  takes  her  chocolate  behind  the  drawn  cur- 
tains;  she  is  the  Beatrix  Esmond  of  brighter  days  and  fortunes.  .  .  .There 


382  HOLLAND  HOUSE  CHAP. 

are  the  windows  of  Harry  Warrington's  lodgings  in  Bond  Street,  *  at  the 
court  end  of  the  town  ; '  geraniums  and  lobelias  flourish  in  them  to  this  day, 
and  no  doubt  they  are  let  to  some  sprig  of  fashion  ;  but  to  irle  they  are 
Harry's  rooms,  hired  from  Mr.  Ruff,  the  milliner's  husband  ;  and  the 
'  Archie '  or  '  Bertie '  in  possession  to-day  is  a  mere  interloper,  whom 
Gumbo  would  have  politely  shown  downstairs." — 

(Byways  of  fiction  in  London.) 

Not  less  has  Dickens  done  with  the  lower  life  of  the  Great 
City.  And  has  not  Miss  Thackeray  (Mrs.  Ritchie),  with  a 
touch  of  her  father's  picturesque  and  vivid  genius,  glorified  that 
"  Old  Court  Suburb,"  Old  Kensington,  in  her  well-known  novel 
of  that  name?  Here,  in  Kensington,  at  No.  2,  Palace  Green, 
then  considerably  more  countrified  than  now,  Thackeray  died 
in  1863.  Here,  too,  is  the  red-brick  Kensington  Palace,  built 
by  William  and  Mary  In  what  Leigh  Hunt  called  "  Dutch 
solidity,"  famous  as  Queen  Victoria's  birth-place,  and  also 
more  sadly  reminiscent  of  poor  Caroline  of  Brunswick,1  the 
ill-fated  and  cruelly  used  wife  of  George  IV. 

Holland  House  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  historically 
important  buildings  in  Kensington.  It  stands  near  Camp- 
den  Hill,  in  beautiful  and  spacious  gardens,  the  same 
gardens  where  the  youthful  George  III.  used  to  flirt  with  the 
lovely  Sarah  Lennox ;  the  lady  dressed  as  a  shepherdess, 
playing  at  haymaking  while  the  King  rode  by  :  a  youthful  and 
a  pleasant  idyl,  in  contrast  with  the  lady's  very  chequered  after 
life !  Holland  House,  says  Mr.  Hare,  * '  surpasses  all  other 
houses  in  beauty,  rising  at  the  end  of  the  green  slope,  with  its 
richly-sculptured  terrace,  and  its  cedars,  and  its  vases  of 
brilliant  flowers."  The  house  was  originally  built  in  1607, 
though  its  characteristic  wings  and  arcades  were  all  added  later 
by  the  first  Earl  of  Holland,  the  same  who  was  beheaded  in 
the  Royalist  wars.  After  his  execution  Holland  House  was 
confiscated  by  the  Parliamentary  generals  ;  being,  however, 
restored  in  1665  to  the  disconsolate  widow,  who  comforted 
herself  by  indulging  privately  here  in  the  theatricals  so  strictly 


xv  HOLLY  LODGE  383 

forbidden  by  the  Puritan  Government.  Early  in  the  eighteenth 
century  Holland  House  became  associated  with  Addison  (of 
Spectator  fame) ;  he  lived  here  for  some  three  years  after  his 
ambitious  marriage  with  Charlotte,  Countess  of  Warwick,  a 
marriage  which,  despite  its  splendour,  report  says  was  not 
happy  for  the  bridegroom.  According  to  Dr.  Johnson,  it  was 

lore  or  less  "  on  terms  like  those  on  which  a  Turkish  princess 
is  espoused,  to  whom  the  Sultan  is  reported  to  pronounce, 

Daughter,  I  give  thee  this  man  for  thy  slave.'  "  But  the  chief 
interest  of  Holland  House  lies  in  its  having  been  for  so  many 
years  the  centre  of  a  great  literary  and  political  coterie^  and  the 
resort  of  Whig  orators  and  politicians.  In  the  lifetime  of  the 
third  Lord  Holland,  who  died  in  1840,  the  house  was  at  the 
height  of  its  splendour  as  a  world-renowned  intellectual  centre. 
Holland  House  still  exists  in  its  integrity,  though  Macaulay  long 
ago  prophesied  mournfully  that 

' '  The  wonderful  city  may  soon  displace  those  turrets  and  gardens  which 
are  associated  with  so  much  that  is  interesting  and  noble — with  the  courtly 
magnificence  of  Rich,  with  the  loves  of  Ormond,  with  the  councils  of  Crom- 
well, with  the  death  of  Addison." 

11  The  gardens  of  Holland  House  "  (says  Mr.  Hare)  "  are  unlike 
anything  else  in  England.  Every  turn  is  a  picture.  ...  A 
raised  terrace,  like  some  of  those  which  belong  to  old  Genoese 
palaces,  leads  from  the  house  high  amongst  the  branches  of  the 
trees  to  the  end  of  the  flower  garden.  .  .  .  Facing  a  miniature 
Dutch  garden  here  is  "  Rogers'  Seat,"  inscribed  : 

"  Here  Rogers  sat,  and  here  for  ever  dwell 
With  me  those  pleasures  that  he  sings  so  well." 

Lord  Macaulay's  last  residence  was,  as  I  have  said,  "  Holly 
Lodge."  In  this  secluded  villa,  high-walled-in  from  the 
outer  world,  were  the  two  requisites  for  an  author's  ideal  of 
happiness,  a  library  and  a  garden.  The  house  bears  a  memorial 
tablet.  Here  the  great  writer  died  while  quietly  seated  in  his 


384  "THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE"  CH.  xv 

library  chair,  his  book  open  beside  him  ;  a  peaceful  close  of  a 
busy  life. 

I  have  named  a  few  of  our  great  Londoners  ;  yet  they, 
indeed,  are  but  few  among  the  vast  galaxy  of  the  bright 
particular  stars  who,  even  in  our  day,  still  enlighten  with  their 
spirit  their  former  dwellings  and  surroundings.  It  is  their 
human  interest  that  so  transfigures  London  stones ;  it  is  the 
mighty  dead  of  England,  the  "choir  invisible," 

"  of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  :  live.   .  .   . 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world  " — 

that  lend  to  their  city  such  enchantment.  Surely  something  of 
this  feeling, — of  this  enchantment  — is  ours  when  we  think  of  the 
long  roll  of  great  spirits  who  illumined  the  archives  of  the  past. 
There  is  a  magic,  a  glamour,  in  London  streets,  that  affects  the 
strongest  heads  and  hearts.  All  honour  to  them — to  poor  human 
nature, — that  it  is  so.  Not  only,  let  us  hope,  to  the  mad  poet- 
painter  Blake  was  it  given  to  "meet  the  Apostle  Paul  in  Picca- 
dilly." We,  too,  may,  if  we  will,  walk  with  Milton  in  Cripplegate, 
may  share  Byron's  Titanic  gloom  in  the  quaint  Albany  precincts, 
may  wander  with  Charles  Lamb  in  those  Temple  Gardens  that 
he  so  loved,  and  may  listen  with  him  and  Dickens  to  the 
pleasant  tinkle  of  the  rippling  water  in  secluded  Fountain 
Court.  We  inherit  these  associations,  and  we  may — inestim- 
able privilege — see  our  London,  our  "  towne  of  townes,  patrone 
and  not  compare,"  through  the  eyes  of  all  the  great  men  who 
loved  her  in  the  past. 

"  The  dull  brick  houses  of  the  square, 
The  bustle  of  the  thoroughfare, 
The  sounds,  the  sights,  the  crush  of  men, 
Are  present,  but  forgotten  then. 

"  With  such  companions  at  my  side 
I  float  on  London's  human  tide  ; 
An  atom  on  its  billows  thrown, 
But  lonely  never,  nor  alone." 


Cricket  in  the  Parks. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

RUS    IN   URBE 

"It  is  my  delight  to  be 

Both  in  town  and  in  countree." — Old  Couplet. 

"  If  one  must  have  a  villa  in  summer  to  dwell, 
Oh,  give  me  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall." — Charles  Morris. 

OH,  London  !  beautiful  London  !  who  would  not  be  with 
thee  in  May?  Paris  should  not,  surely,  be  recommended  as 
the  only  Mecca  of  that  lovely  month.  When  the  London 
street  authorities,  with  unwonted  forbearance,  have  for  one 
brief  moment  suspended  their  incessant  repairing  of  the  busiest 
thoroughfares ;  when  the  hanging  gardens  of  Park  Lane,  and 
the  window-boxes  of  Seven  Dials,  alike  display  their  "  pavilions 
of  tender  green  " ;  when  Piccadilly  is  blocked  with  traffic ;  when 
Rotten  Row  is  thronged  with  the  smart  world ;  when  the  shops 

c  C 


386 


THE  LUNGS  OF  LONDON" 


CHAP. 


hang  out  their  daintiest  spring  fashions  ;  when  the  gay  parterres 
of  the  Parks  show  flowers  of  kaleidoscopic  brilliance,  and  their 
sylvan  seclusions  suggest  the  "real  country,"  what  can  be 
more  delightful  than  our  own  often-maligned  metropolis  ? 

The  Parks  of  London  are,  perhaps,  the  element  that  most 
surprises  the  foreigner  unused  to  English  tastes  and  ways. 
Here  are  neither  the  leafy  terraces  and  regular  alleys  of  German 
capitals,  nor  the  trim  well-clipped  boscages  and  levels  of 
Versailles  and  the  Tuileries ;  but  only  mere  stretches  of  park- 
like  greensward,  dotted  here  and  there,  in  charming  irregularity, 
with  old  trees  of  noble  girth.  Walks  there  are,  indeed,  and 
footpaths,  shrubberies,  and  flower-beds ;  but  the  chief  area  of 
the  London  Parks  is,  ever  and  always,  this  fresh,  radiant, 
undulating  turf,  turf  which  here,  more  than  ever,  suggests  the 
little  Board  School  girl's  answer  to  a  question  on  general 
knowledge :  "  Turf,  ma'am,  is  grass  and  clean  dirt  put 
together  by  God." 

Of  Hyde  Park,  the  largest  and  oldest  of  the  London  Parks, 
Disraeli  said  truly  in  one  of  his  novels :  "  Hyde  Park  has 
still  about  it  something  of  Arcadia.  There  are  woods  and 
waters,  and  the  occasional  illusion  of  an  illimitable  distance  of 
sylvan  joyance."  The  history  of  Hyde  Park  is  the  history, 
generally,  of  Greater  London ;  first  monastery  grounds,  then 
royal  demesne,  then  again,  the  people's.  Some  of  the  old 
trees  may  even  have  seen  the  ancient  manor  of  Hyde ;  some 
of  them  must  certainly  recall  the  time  when  this  was  a  royal 
Tudor  hunting-ground,  well-stocked  with  deer.  Many  of  its 
fine  old  timber-trees  have,  however,  disappeared,  so  that  the 
famous  "  Ring  "  of  Charles  II. 's  time  can  be  now  but  imperfectly 
traced. 

The  Parks  are,  naturally,  "  the  lungs  of  London."  Were  it 
not  for  these  large  "open  spaces,"  so  mercifully  preserved  to 
us  by  the  wisdom  and  farsightedness  of  former  rulers  and 
legislators,  the  health  of  the  great  city  would  hardly  now  be 
what  it  is.  The  little  town  of  the  early  centuries,  Roman, 


xvi  WHEN  LONDON  WAS  IN  THE  COUNTRY  387 

Saxon,  or  Norman,  surrounded  by  country  woods  and  pastures,— 
dotted  with  the  gardens  of  merchants  and  magnates,  as  well  as 
with  frequent  convent  closes,  orchards,  and  leafy  precincts,—  had 
small  need  of  such  vast  pleasure-grounds.  For  London,  even 
in  Elizabeth's  day,  consisted  (as  shown  in  Aggas's  map),  of 
only  two  tiny  townlets,  "  London "  and  "  Westminster " ; 
beyond,  all  was  open  fields.  Tottenham  Court  Road,  that 
dreary  thoroughfare  of  ugly  modernity,  was  the  solitary  manor 
of  "  Toten  Court,"  a  sylvan  resort  for  "  cakes  and  creame  " ; 
Chelsea  was  a  pretty,  distant  riverside  hamlet ;  Regent  Street 
and  Bond  Street  were  cows'  pastures,  and  the  "  flowery  fields  " 
of  "  Marybone  "  were  altogether  in  the  rural  distances.  Who, 
indeed,  would  recognise  the  present  Regent's  Park  in  these 
lines  (from  an  old  play  called  "  Tottenham  Court ") : 

"  What  a  dainty  life  the  milkmaid  leads, 
When  o'er  these  flowery  meads 
She  dabbles  in   dew, 
And  sings  to  her  cow, 
And  feels  not  the  pain 
Of  love  or  disdain  .  .  .   ." 

But  if,  to  the  London  of  old  time,  the  Parks  were  not 
necessary,  to  modern  London,  which  has  more  than  doubled 
its  population  and  its  area  in  the  last  century  and  a  half,  they 
are  an  unspeakable  boon.  Our  forefathers  were  wise  in  their 
•generation  when  they  secured  these  stretches  of  the  outlying 
country  for  public  use.  We,  too,  in  our  own  day,  make  similar 
efforts,  efforts  of  which  the  recent  preservation  of  Parliament 
Fields,  of  part  of  Caen  Wood,  affords  sufficient  proof.  In  that 
far-off  day,  prophesied  by  "Mother  Shipton,"  when  "Primrose 
Hill  shall  be  the  centre  of  London,"  such  breathing  spaces, 
such  oases  in  the  wilderness  of  bricks  and  mortar,  would  prove 
of  quite  incalculable  value. 

Happily,  London,  even  in  her  rampant  growth,  is  often 
'jealously  mindful  of  her  responsibilities.  Though  our  city  boasts 
no  such  spacious  boulevards  as  are  to  be  seen  in  Paris,  trees  are 

c  c  2 


388  ATMOSPHERIC  "EFFECTS"  CHAP. 

often  now  planted  at  intervals  on  the  sidewalks  in  many  of  the 
newest  thoroughfares,  and  a  few  of  the  older  streets  are  being 
widened  and  improved.  Very  few  are  the  London  views,  as  I 
have  said  elsewhere,  that  are  not  in  a  measure  enlivened  by 
foliage  or  greenery. 

The  colouring  of  London  is  a  thing  peculiar  to  itself;  it 
requires  to  be  specially  studied,  even  by  painters  whose  eyes 
are  trained  to  observation.  Its  wonderful  atmospheric  effects 
have  been  only  more  or  less  recently  recognised  by  them.  Very 
few  artists  have  rendered  thoroughly  the  strange  cold  light  on  the 
London  streets ;  cold,  yet  suffused  by  an  underlying  glow,  by  a 
warmth  of  colour  hardly  at  first  guessed  by  the  spectator.  Even 
a  rainy  day  of  London  grey  ness — what  does  the  poet's  eye  see 
in  it? 

"  Rain  in  the  measureless  street, 
Vistas  of  orange  and  blue  .   .  .   . 
Blue  of  wet  road,  of  wet  sky, 
(Grey  in  the  depths  and  the  heights), 
Orange  of  numberless  lights, 
Shapes  fleeting  on,  going  by  .  .  .  ." 

The  cold  pearly  greyness  of  winter,  the  blue  mist  of 
spring,  the  silvery  haze  of  summer,  the  orange  sunsets  of 
autumn,  when  the  dim  sun  sinks  in  the  fog  like  a  gigantic  red 
fireball,  all,  in  turn,  have  their  charm.  The  artist's  fault  is  that 
he  nearly  always  paints  London  scenes  too  cold,  too  joyless. 
Mr.  Herbert  Marshall,  the  water-colour  painter,  to  whom  we  are 
indebted  for  so  many  charming  impressions  of  the  London  streets, 
leans,  if  anything,  somewhat  to  the  other  side,  and  hardly 
allows  for  the  aesthetic  value  of  smoke.  Painting,  in  London, 
is  always  a  difficulty  ;  but  Mr.  Marshall,  it  is  said,  used  to 
station  himself  and  his  paraphernalia  securely  inside  some 
road-mending  enclosure,  and  thus  pursue  his  calling  un- 
deterred by  the  persecution  of  the  idle. 

The  faint  blue-grey  mist  of  the  great  city  often  gives  to 
London  scenes  something  of  the  quality  of  dissolving  views. 


IN  THE  PARKS 


389 


Seldom  is  a  vista  perfectly  clear  ;  rather  does  it  often  suggest  a 
vague  intensity  of  misty  glory.  Does  not  that  lovely  glimpse 
of  the  Whitehall  palaces  from  St.  James's  Park,  seen,  on  fine 
days  in  summer,  from  the  little  bridge  over  the  "  ornamental 


Rotten  Row. 

water,"  gain  an  added  charm  from  distance  ?     Do  not  the  more 
or  less  prosaic  Government  buildings  appear  to  be  the 

"cloud-capt  towers  and  gorgeous  palaces" 

of  some  dream   of  Oriental  splendour?     In   such  guise,  one 
might    imagine,    would    the    deceiving   visions    of    a    "  Fata 


390  FASHION  AND  ROTTEN^  ROW  CHAP. 

Morgana," — a  fairy  palace,  shaded  by  just  such  branching, 
feathery  trees,—  appear  to  the  thirsting  traveller  over  the  desert 
sands. 

Even  M.  Max  O'Rell,  who  allows  himself  to  scoff  at  most 
things  English,  has  a  word  of  admiration  for  the  peculiar  misty 
beauty  of  the  London  parks. 

"Nothing"  (he  says)  "is  more  imposing  than  the  exuberant  beauty  of 
the  parks.  ,Take  a  walk  across  them  in  the  early  morning  when  there  is  no 
one  stirring,  and  the  nightingale  is  singing  high  up  in  some  gigantic  tree  ; 
it  is  one  of  the  rare  pleasures  that  you  will  find  within  your  reach  in 
London.  If  the  morning  be  fine,  you  will  not  fail  to  be  struck  with  a 
lovely  pearl-grey  haze,  soft  and  subdued,  that  I  never  saw  in  such  perfec- 
tion as  in  the  London  parks." 

The  parks  of  London,  like  its  districts,  all  have  their  special 
attributes,  their  special  place  in  thesocial  plane.  Thus,  HydePark 
is  aristocratic,  and  in  the  season,  its  penny  chairs,  from  Hyde 
Park  Corner  to  the  Albert  Gate,  are  thronged  with  the  smart 
world.  Beautiful  women,  distinguished  men,  and  gilded  youths 
may  be  seen  riding — the  best  riders  and  the  finest  horses  in  the 
world — along  Rotten  Row  at  the  fashionable  morning  hour ; 
and,  in  the  afternoon,  the  whole  of  ''Society"  appears  to  take 
its  afternoon  drive  round  the  magic  "  Ring  "  or  circle  of  the 
Park,  enjoying  seeing  and  being  seen.  Three  times  round  the 
Ring  is  a  common  afternoon  allowance ;  exercise,  surely,  that 
habit  must  render,  in  time,  not  unlike  a  treadmill.  In  Hyde 
Park,  too,  takes  place  the  yearly  meet  of  the  "  Four-in-Hand  " 
Club,  extensively  patronised  by  rank  and  royalty;  on  which 
the  popular  sentiment  is  delightfully  echoed  by  the  refrain  of 
the  cockney  song  of  The  Runaway  Girt, 

"  I'd  have  four  horses  with  great  long  tails, 
If  my  papa  were  the  Prince  of  Wales  !  " 

Here  in  the  Park,  on  Sundays,  takes  place  the  famous 
"Church  Parade,"  so  paragraphed  in  the  society  papers;  here, 
also,  are  often  ratified  on  May  mornings,  the  season's 


FLIRTATION 


391 


matrimonial  engagements ;  and  here  fond  mothers  with  pretty 
daughters  keep  a  watchful  outlook  for  "  detrimentals." 


Rotten  Roiv, 


"The  Ring,"  in  Stuart  times,  was  the  scene  of  frequent 
duels,  the  most  noted  of  which  was  that  between  Lord  Mohun 
and  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  (made  use  of  in  Thackeray's 


392  THE  REFORMERS'  TREE  CH.  xvi 

Esmond],  in  1712,  when  both  combatants  were  killed. 
And  one  of  the  saddest  modern  associations  of  this  circular 
drive  is  connected  with  Mrs.  Carlyle's  death  here  on  April  2 1, 
1866.  The  poor  lady,  to  whom  a  brougham  and  an  afternoon 
drive  were  luxuries  of  her  later  and  invalid  years,  died  quietly 
and  silently  in  her  carriage  from  heart  failure  caused  by  shock 
at  a  trivial  accident  to  her  small  dog,  which  she  had  put  out 
to  run  at  Victoria  Gate,  near  the  Marble  Arch ;  the  coachman, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  fatality,  driving  on  for  some  time  before 
discovering  the  sad  truth. 

The  Tyburnia  end  of  Hyde  Park  is  that  most  frequented  by 
the  populace.  If  the  smart  world  monopolises  the  vicinity  of 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  the  green  spaces  fringing  the  Bayswater 
Road,  and  near  the  Marble  Arch,  are  generally  appropriated  by 
tired  workmen  and  idle  loafers,  who  lie  about  on  the  grass,  in 
enviable  bliss,  on  hot  days  in  summer,  looking  like  nothing  so 
much  as  an  army  of  soldiers  mown  down  by  a  Maxim  gun, 
and  contentedly  appreciating  the  fact  that  here  in  London,  for 
once,  they  have  found  free  and  undisputed  possession — a  place 

where : 

"  no  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer, 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer." 

In  the  space  opposite  the  Marble  Arch  is  the  so-called 
"  Reformers'  Tree,"  where  political  meetings  sometimes  take 
place  on  Sundays,  and  where  preachers,  lecturers,  and  "  cranks  " 
of  every  possible  denomination,  hold  their  respective  courts. 
Visitors  to  London  should  make  a  point  of  witnessing  this 
curious  and  well-known  phase  of  London  life ;  the  outcome, 
M.  Taine  seems  to  suggest,  of  the  latent  seriousness  of  the 
British  mind ;  "  an  intense  conviction,  which  for  lack  of  an 
outlet,  would  degenerate  into  madness,  melancholy,  or  sedition." 
Mr.  Anstey  in  the  pages  of  Punch,  has,  in  his  own  inimitable 
way,  described  these  scenes,  which  are  familiar  to  the  readers 
of  "Voces  Populi." 

The    "Serpentine,"  a  large  sheet  of  water  mainly  artificial, 


394  THE  SERPENTINE  CHAP. 

certainly  cannot  be  said  to  "serpent,"  for  it  has  but  a  very 
slight  bend.  Originating,  however,  at  a  period  when  all  garden 
walks  and  ponds  were  of  painful  Dutch  regularicy,  it  owes  its 
name  to  this  trifling  deviation.  This  prettily  devised  and 
wooded  piece  of  water  is  due  mainly  to  Queen  Caroline,  wife 
to  George  II,  an  energetic  lady  with  gardening  tastes.  Very 
charming  is  the  view  to  be  obtained  from  the  five-arched  stone 
bridge  over  the  Serpentine,  "  a  view,"  says  Mr.  Henry  James, 
"  of  extraordinary  nobleness."  Yet  the  Serpentine,  too,  has 
its  tragic  associations.  Perhaps  it  suggests,  in  its  beauty, 
the  haunting  lines : 

"  When  Life  hangs  heavy,  Death  remains  the  door 
To  endless  rest  beside  the  Stygian  shore." 

Always  a  noted  spot  for  suicides,  it  was  the  place  chosen  by 
Harriet  Westbrook,  the  unfortunate  first  wife  of  Shelley,  for 
the  ending  of  the  many  troubles  of  her  short  life  ;  "a  rash  act," 
says  Professor  Dowden  with  praiseworthy  partisanship,  which 
it  "  seems  certain  that  no  act  of  Shelley's,  during  the  two  years 
which  immediately  preceded  her  death,  tended  to  cause." 
"Shelley,"  comments  Matthew  Arnold  drily,  "had  been  living 
with  another  woman  all  the  time  ;  only  that ! " 

The  charm  of  Kensington  Gardens — detached  from  Hyde 
Park  in  later  times — is,  perhaps,  its  greater  seclusion  and  air  of 
guarded  calm,  as  befits  the  gardens  surrounding  a  royal  palace. 
No  carriages  are  allowed  to  profane  its  sacred  shades ;  no  rude 
sounds  of  the  outer  world  penetrate  its  leafy  bowers.  In  one 
pleasant  spot  of  greenery  a  welcome  innovation  has  lately  been 
introduced  in  the  summer  months,  in  the  shape  of  afternoon 
tea  al  fresco,  provided  by  an  enterprising  club,  and  of 
late  much  frequented  by  the  fashionable  world.  Kensington 
Gardens  are  always  very  select  in  their  coterie ;  on  their 
western  side  stands  the  old  Dutch  palace  of  solid  red-brick, 
built  for  William  and  Mary, — sorrowed  in  by  desolate  Queen 
Anne, — birthplace  of  Queen  Victoria,  worthiest,  noblest,  and 


xvi  KENSINGTON  GARDENS  395 

most  lamented  of  her  line.  With  her,  most  of  all,  are  the 
associations  of  Kensington  Gardens  now  bound  up.  In  these 
pretty  walks  crowded  still  by  the  children  and  nurses  of  the 
wealthy  and  noble,  the  little  royal  girl  used  to  play,  regardless 
alike  of  her  coming  doom — or  glory. 

Yet,  with  all  the  nursery  din  of  Kensington  Gardens — an 
English  Tuikries — there  yet  are  spots  so  secluded  and  so  quiet 
as  still  to  justify  Matthew  Arnold's  lovely  lines : 

"  In  this  lone,  open  glade  I  lie, 
Screen'd  by  deep  boughs  on  either  hand  ; 
And  at  its  end,  to  stay  the  eye, 
Those  black-crown'd,  red-boled  pine-trees  stand  ! 

"  Birds  here  make  song,  each  bird  has  his, 
Across  the  girding  city's  hum. 
How  green  under  the  boughs  it  is  ! 
How  thick  the  tremulous  sheep-cries  come  ! 

"  Here  at  my  feet  what  wonders  pass, 
What  endless,  active  life  is  here  ! 
What  blowing  daisies,  fragrant  grass  ! 
An  air-stirred  forest,  fresh  and  clear. 

"  In  the  huge  world,  which  roars  hard  by, 
Be  others  happy  if  they  can  ! 
But  in  my  helpless  cradle  I 
Was  breathed  on  by  the  rural  Pan. 

"  Yet  here  is  peace  for  ever  new  ! 
When  I  who  watch  them  am  away, 
Still  all  things  in  this  glade  go  through 
The  changes  of  their  quiet  day." 

Poor  Haydon,  the  painter,  whose  fitful  genius  went  out  so 
sadly  in  lurid  gloom,  said  of  Kensington  Gardens  that  "  here 
are  some  of  the  most  poetical  bits  of  tree  and  stump,  and 
sunny  brown  and  green  glens  and  tawny  earth."  Disraeli,  also, 
wrote  of  it  as  follows  in  his  most  "  classically-flowery " 
manner  : — 

"  The  inhabitants  of  London  are  scarcely  sufficiently  sensible  of  the 
beauty  of  its  environs.  On  every  side  the  most  charming  retreats  open  to 


396 


RUS  IN  URBE 


them  ....  In  exactly  ten  minutes  it  is  in  the  power  of  every  man  to  free 
himself  from  all  the  tumult  of  the  world  ;  the  pangs  of  love,  the  throbs  of 
ambition,  the  wear  and  tear  of  play,  the  recriminating  boudoir,  the  con- 
spiring club,  the  rattling  hell,  and  find  himself  in  a  sublime  sylvan  solitude 


Ten  in  Kensington  Gardens. 

superior  to  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  and  inferior  only  in  extent  to  the 
chestnut  forests  of  Anatolia.  It  is  Kensington  Gardens  that  is  almost 
the  only  place  that  has  realised  his  idea  of  the  forests  of  Spenser  and 
Ariosto. " 


xvi  ST.  JAMES'S  PARK  397 

What  havoc,  truly,  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851,  the  Prince 
Consort's  darling  scheme,  must  have  wrought  in  Hyde  Park 
and  Kensington  Gardens  !  And  what  would  the  bright  particular 
spirits  of  the  present  day  now  think  of  such  irreverent,  such  high- 
handed proceedings?  Even  the  Kensington  Museum  now 
eschews  the  too  close  neighbourhood  of  ephemeral  Exhibi- 
tions ;  they  are  relegated  to  the  more  distant  shades  of 
Olympiaand  of  Earl's  Court ;  the  immense  Crystal  Palace— the 
Exhibition  building — now  flourishes  at  Sydenham,  and  the  site 
of  the  great  show  is  commemorated  in  Hyde  Park  by  the  Albert 
Memorial,  an  edifice  about  the  merits  of  which  much  difference 
of  opinion  rages.  Yet,  even  its  detractors  must  own  the 
magnificence  of  the  monument,  and  admire  the  eastern 
opulence  of  its  mosaics,  its  gilding,  its  bronzes  and  marbles. 

But  St.  James's  Park  is  really,  in  some  ways,  quite  the 
prettiest  of  the  London  parks,  and  though  sufficiently  aristo- 
cratic, it  is  yet  much  frequented  by  the  populace.  "  A 
genuine  piece  of  country,  and  of  English  country,"  Taine  says 
of  it.  Round  it  are  situated  royal  palaces  and  beautiful 
mansions,  standing  amidst  their  spacious  gardens.  North  of 
St.  James's  Park  stretches  the  Mall,  so  named  from  the 
ancient  game  of  "  Paille  Maille,"  played  here  by  the  gay  court 
of  Charles  II.  The  game  consisted  in  striking  a  ball,  with  a 
mallet,  through  an  iron  ring,  down  a  straight  walk  powdered 
with  cockle-shells.  Here,  in  later  Stuart  and  Hanoverian 
times,  was  to  be  seen  the  very  height  of  London  fashion,  the 
ladies  in  "  full  dress,"  and  their  cavaliers  carrying  their  hats 
under  their  arms.  Perhaps,  of  all  the  varying  "  modes " 
flaunted  from  time  to  time  in  the  "Mall,"  the  fashions  of 
1800 — 1810  would  strike  us  now  as  being  the  most  peculiar. 

East  of  St.  James's  Park  are  the  stately  Government  Offices, 
and  south  is  Birdcage  Walk,  overlooked  by  the  pretty  hanging 
gardens  and  balconies  that  adorn  the  mansions  of  picturesque 
Queen  Anne's  Gate.  Where  "  Spring  Gardens  "  now  stand  was, 
in  old  days,  "  Milk  Fair,"  where  asses'  and  cows'  milk  was 


CH.  xvi  ORIGIN  OF  ST.  JAMES'S  PARK  399 

sold  to  the  votaries  of  fashion,  to  repair  the  ravages  of  late 
hours  and  "  routs."  Milk-vendors,  boasting  their  descent 
from  the  original  holders,  have  still  their  cow-stall  at  the' 
park  corner  under  the  elm-trees.  In  the  distance  the  grey 
old  abbey,  with  its  delicate  tracery,  appears  at  intervals  above 
the  trees  and  buildings ;  and,  though  so  near  the  city  smoke, 
the  Ornithological  Society  breeds  many  beautiful  aquatic 
birds  on  a  small  island  on  the  Ornamental  Water.  St.  James's 
Park  is  a  series  of  pictures ;  the  sketcher,  too,  will  find  many 
convenient  seats,  as  well  as  charming  views. 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  this  lovely  park  was,  in  pre- 
Tudor  times,  merely  a  swampy  field,  pertaining  to  a  hospital 
"  for  fourteen  maidens  that  were  leprous,"  and  far  beyond 
the  precincts  of  the  little  London  of  that  day.  (The  lepers' 
hospital  itself  stood  where  now  stands  St.  James's  Palace.)  It 
was  Henry  VIII.  who  removed  the  leper  maidens,  converting 
their  asylum  into  a  palace,  their  field  into  a  park ;  a  park  used 
as  the  private  garden  to  the  palace  until  Charles  IL's  time, 
at  which  period  it  was  made  public  and  laid  out  by  a  French 
landscape  gardener  called  "  Le  Notre."  There  is  a  story  that 
Queen  Caroline,  wife  to  George  II.,  wished  to  appropriate  the 
Park  once  more  for  the  sole  use  of  the  Palace,  and  asked 
"what  it  would  cost  to  effect  this?"  "Only  three  crowns," 
was  the  pithy  answer  of  the  minister,  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 

Beautiful  as  St.  James's  Park  still  is,  it  must  have  been  yet 
more  charming  a  century-and-a-half  ago,  when  no  houses  as 
yet  intervened  between  it  and  the  grey  dignity  of  the  old 
Abbey  of  Westminster,  and  when  the  vanished  Rosamond's 
Pond,  with  its  wild  and  romantic  banks,  gave  a  rural  attraction 
to  the  scene.  Rosamond's  Pond,  mentioned  by  Pope  and 
other  writers,  was  a  favourite  trysting-place  for  lovers,  and 
had  also,  from  its  seclusion,  a  less  enviable  notoriety  for 
suicides. 

Charles  II. ,  was  especially  fond  of  St.  James's  Park  ;  he 
would  sit  here  for  hours  among  his  dogs,  amusing  himself 


400  BIRDS  IN  THE  LONDON  PARKS  CHAP. 

with  the  tame  ducks,  that  he  had  himself  introduced ;  the 
descendants  of  these  ducks,  it  is  said,  flourish,  like  those 
of  the  milk-vendors,  to  this  day,  and  are  fed  familiarly  by 
constant  Londoners.  Perhaps  it  was  Charles's  fondness  for 
animals  that,  by  a  natural  sequence  of  events,  caused  the 
park,  somewhat  later,  to  become  a  sort  of  Zoological  Gardens 
for  London.  Birds  of  all  kinds  still  thrive  in  it,  although 
distant  Battersea  Park,  new  and  semi-suburban,  now  claims 
its  share  of  ornithological  fame.  The  London  County  Council, 
among  other  good  works,  has  adopted  towards  animals  the 
protecting  role  of  Charles  II.,  and  sedulously  encourages  bird- 
life  in  the  parks ;  woe,  therefore,  to  the  boy  or  man,  who 
goes  bird-nesting  or  bird-snaring  in  one  of  these  sacred 
enclosures !  Wild  birds  reciprocate  the  Council's  paternal 
care  by  taking  up  their  lodging  in  Battersea  of  their  own  free 
will.  A  cuckoo's  egg  was  even  found  in  Battersea  Park  lately, 
laid,  very  annoyingly,  in  a  "  whitethroat's "  nest,  which  -had 
been  made  in  a  bamboo-bush  in  the  "sub-tropical"  part  of  the 
gardens.  Nevertheless,  the  charitable  whitethroats  overlooked 
the  liberty,  and  safely  hatched  that  cuckoo.  Battersea  Park 
claims,  moreover,  robins,  tits,  hedge-sparrows,  chaffinches, 
wrens,  and  greenfinches ;  to  say  nothing  of  herons,  and  even  a 
white  blackbird.  Birds  take  kindly  to  London ;  do  not  even 
the  gulls  come  up  the  river  by  thousands  in  severe  winters, 
as  the  Albatross  came  to  the  call  of  the  Ancient  Mariner? 
Also,  over  200  wood-pigeons  are  said  to  roost  regularly  on  the 
Battersea  Park  islands.  But  then,  wood-pigeons  seem  to  be 
everywhere  at  home  in  London.  Do  they  not  haunt  the  city, 
gardens  that  lie  behind  Queen  Square,  and  coo  sweetly  all 
through  the  London  spring  and  summer  ? 

If  Battersea  Park,  with  its  charmingly  laid-out  gardens,  its 
wealth  of  tropical  plants,  all  its  feathered  population,  and  its 
river  glories  of  twilight  and  sunset,  is  yet  undistinguished,  so 
also  is  the  Regent's  Park,  which  is  situated  at  quite  another, 
(though  equally  semi-suburban),  angle  of  the  metropolis. 


xvi  REGENT'S  PARK  401 

Regent's  Park,  like  Battersea  Park,  is  the  resort  of  the  great 
middle-class.  Here  you  may  see,  on  Bank  Holidays,  the  groups 
so  lovingly  described  by  Ibsen,  "  father,  mother,  and  troop  of 
children,"  all  drest  in  their  Sunday  best,  and  all  dropping 
orange-peel  cheerfully  as  they  go.  Here  too,  on  Sundays,  is  a 
"  Church  Parade,"  quite  as  crowded  as  that  of  Hyde  Park, 
though  not,  perhaps,  so  largely  noticed  in  the  "  society " 
papers.  The  demeanour  of  the  young  couples  is  perhaps  here 
a  trifle  more  boisterous,  that  of  their  elders  perhaps  a  shade 
more  prim ;  the  attire  of  the  ladies,  generally,  a  thought  more 
crude.  The  wide  middle  avenue  of  Regent's  Park,  on 
Sundays,  affords  capital  study  to  those  interested  in  the  vast 
subject  of  Man  and  Manners.  And  then  the  great  middle  class 
is  so  much  more  amusing  than  are  the  "  Well-Connected  "  ! 

The  flowers  in  Regent's  Park,  in  spring  and  early  summer,  are 
a  yearly  marvel  and  a  delight.  Not  even  those  of  Hyde  Park, 
in  all  their  season's  glory,  can  surpass  them.  On  each  side 
of  the  large  middle  avenue,  gay  parterres  vie  with  one  another 
in  brilliance.  Tulips,  hyacinths  of  wonderful  shades,  all  the 
glory  of  spring  bulbs,  make  way,  later,  for  summer  "  bedding- 
out-plants"  in  lovely  combinations  of  colour.  Crocuses, 
scillas,  and  snowdrops,  too,  are  scattered  here  and  there,  with 
a  charming  air  of  lavishness,  over  the  grassy  slopes ;  this  has 
a  delightful  effect,  giving  all  the  look  and  suggestion  of  wild 
flowers. 

Regent's  Park  has,  then,  an  unrivalled  charm  to  the  flower- 
lover.  (And  what  true  Londoner,  one  may  ask,  is  not  a  flower- 
lover  ?  The  Londoner  loves  flowers  with  an  intensity  undreamed 
of  in  the  real  country.)  The  slum  children,  who  frequent  this 
park  in  large  numbers,  respect,  as  a  rule,  the  flower-beds.  Slum- 
children  are,  generally, —  as  I  have  observed  from  experience 
gathered  in  the  Temple  Gardens,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
Leicester  Square  and  elsewhere, — more  reverently  inclined,  as 
regards  flowers,  than  their  more  pampered  contemporaries  ; 
though,  of  course,  nature  is  nature,  and  there  may  be  occasional 

D   D 


402  TEMPTATION  CHAP. 

lapses.  Thus,  the  other  day  I  chanced  to  notice,  in  Regent's 
Park,  two  small  girls  "  of  the  people,"  whose  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  "  property  "  seemed  just  a  trifle  elementary.  They 
were  ragged  and  hungry-looking  too,  and  to  add  to  the  pathos 
of  their  rags,  one  of  them  flourished  a  broken  green  parasol, 
and  the  other  one's  tattered  hat  flaunted  a  dirty  pink  ostrich 
feather : 

"  Oh,  Lizer,"  I  heard  the  smallest  one  say,  "  I  do  wish  I  could 
git  one  o'  them  flowers !  jest  one  geranium,  for  ter  stick  in  my 
'air  at  Sunday-school  ter-morrer  !  They'd  niver  miss  it "  ! 

"  Certingly  not !  The  p'leaceman  'ud  be  after  you,  pretty 
sharp,"  says  the  elder  child,  severely.  "  You  know  'ow  Bert 
caught  it,  three  weeks  back,  for  on'y  a-breakin  orf  of  two 
daffies,  and  one  of  'em  nearly  dead  too  !  Well,  (relenting), 
"  you  may  git  me  jest  a  few,  if  you  kin  do  it  so's  the  p'leaceman 
can't  see  " .  .  .  .  Rosie,  shet  it !  "  as  the  younger  girl  clutched 
at  some  flowers  :  "  I  see  'im  a-comin'  towards  us,  this  minnit ! 
No,  if  you  please,  we  ain't  done  nothin',  sir !  My  sister  an' 
me,  sir,  we  was  on'y  jest  a-lookin'  at  the  flowers,  an'  saying  as 
'ow  beautiful  they  'ad  grown,  since  this  Sat'day  gone  a  week.  .  .  . 
Our  garding  ain't  got  no  show  to  equil  them,  and  we  ain't  got 
no  cut  flowers,  for  onst,  in  ma's  drorin'-room ;  and  these  'ere 
is  grown  that  beautiful." 

"  You  was  a-goin'  to  'elp  'em  grow,  wasn't  you  ?  "  said  the 
policeman,  good-naturedly  enough:  "/  see  you  a-stretchin' 
over  them  railin's !  Your  garding's  a  alley,  that's  wot  it  is  ! 
an'  your  drorin'-room  is  jest  a  three-pair-model,  /  back  !  .  .  .  . 
I  know  your  sort !  'Ere,  tike  yerselves  orf,  double  quick  !  " 

The  ignorant  in  such  matters  may,  perhaps,  vaguely  wonder, 
in  Regent's  Park,  why  the  comfortable  chairs  provided, 
apparently,  for  man's  delectation,  are  all  deserted  of  the 
multitude,  and  why,  on  the  other  hand,  the  iron  seats  are 
crammed  to  repletion?  The  explanation  is  a  simple  one. 
The  chairs  cost  a  penny  each  to  sit  on  !  It  is,  however,  not 
unusual  to  see  a  stray  marauder  occupy  one  of  these  sacred 


ON  THE  STUMP" 


403 


resting-places  for  a  stolen  minute  of  bliss,  and,  on  seeing  the 
approach  of  the  Guardian  of  the  Park  furniture  (whence  such 
guardians  spring  up  is  ever  a  mystery),  rise  and  absent  himself 
in  well-feigned  abstraction. 

Regent's    Park,    like    Hyde    Park,   is   a   focus   of  itinerant 


The  Reformer. 

lecturers  and  preachers.  These  have  apparently  established  a 
kind  of  "  Sunday  right "  to  the  upper  part  of  the  long  avenue  of 
trees  beyond  the  flower-gardens.  Here,  as  in  the  larger  park, 
may  be  seen  "  cranks  "  of  every  kind.  Thus,  one  lecturer  will 
hold  up  to  obloquy  an  unkind  caricature  of  Mr,  Chamberlain, 
representing  the  great  man  with  the  addition  of  horns  and 

D  D  2 


404  PARK  ORATORS  CHAP. 

hoofs ;  another,  proclaiming  the  gospel  of  Jingoism,  will  shout 
himself  hoarse  in  the  attempt  to  drown  his  adversary.  (Political 
meetings,  however,  may  now  possibly  be  regarded  with  dis- 
favour by  the  authorities,  the  Boer  War  having  lately  rendered 
many  of  them  somewhat  picturesque  in  incident.)  Under 
another  big  tree,  a  Revivalist  meeting  will  be  held,  accompanied 
by  sundry  groans  and  sobs,  and  varied  at  intervals  by  hymns 
sung  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  harmonium  or  a  small  piano- 
organ.  The  first  beginnings  of  lectures,  as  of  righteousness, 
are  hard.  One  poor  orator,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  I 
saw  myself  arrive  on  the  scene,  and  "  work  up  "  his  lecture 
to  the  unsympathetic  and  goggle-eyed  audience  of  a  small 
cockney  nursemaid,  a  perambulator,  and  two  wailing  babies. 
I  quite  felt  for  that  poor  man ;  nevertheless,  he  persevered, 
and  in  only  five  minutes  auditors  had  already  begun  to 
trickle  in.  (A  considerable  percentage  of  the  Park  congre- 
gations, I  may  here  observe,  had  no  "  fixed  city,"  no  abiding 
convictions ;  they  wandered  about  here  and  there,  from 
one  preacher  to  another,  "just  as  fate  or  fancy  carried";  or, 
rather,  to  whichever  of  the  said  preachers  happened  at  the 
moment  to  be  the  most  emphatic.)  With  lectures  al  fresco, 
as  with  other  things,  it  would  appear  to  be  only  the  premier  pas 
qui  coute ;  and  soon  the  would-be  orator  had  a  distinguished 
and  motley  following.  What,  exactly,  he  was  lecturing  about, 
it  is  really  beyond  me  to  say,  for  my  attention  ,was  largely 
woolgathering  about  the  crowd ;  but  he  seemed,  like  Mr. 
Chadband,  of  immortal  memory,  to  repeat  himself  a  good  deal, 
and  to  be  very  angry  indeed  about  something  or  other. 
Indeed,  I  doubt  whether  the  majority  of  his  audience  quite 
understood  the  orator's  drift,  but  they  knew  that  he  was 
bellowing  with  all  the  strength  of  his  lungs,  and  Englishmen 
always  respect  a  man  who  makes  sufficient  noise.  The 
lecturer's  anger  seemed,  strangely  enough,  to  be  directed 
against  poor,  unoffending  Regent's  Park  itself : 

"For  twenty  years,"  he  kept  reiterating,  "for  twenty  years 


xvi  THE  ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS  405 

Regent's  Park  has  been  allowed  to  speak,  unhindered,  under 
this  very  tree.  For  twenty  years  it  has  found  its  voice,  ay, 
and  its  pence,  too,  here.  ...  Is  it  to  continue  to  find  them, 
or  not  ?  That  is  the  question.  .  .  .  Does  Regent's  Park  wish 
to  sit  tamely  under  insult  ?  to  lie  down  to  be  crushed  ?  to  bend 
its  back  to  the  tyrant?"  (here  the  speaker,  in  his  fervour, 
seemed  to  get  a  trifle  mixed  in  his  similes.) 

"  'Ear,  'ear,"  said  a  chubby  baker's  boy,  who  had  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  listen  ;  and  one  of  the  forgotten  babies  in  the 
perambulator  wailed. 

"Will  Regent's  Park,  I  say,  tolerate  this?  It  is,  let  me 
repeat  it,  it  is  for  Regent's  Park  to  decide  ! " 

But  the  "  Regent's  Park  "  of  the  hour,  though  thus  eloquently 
adjured,  was  evidently  not  to  be  roused  to  fury ;  or  even  to 
decision.  "  Kim  on  'ome,"  cries  the  nurse-girl  to  the  twins, 
hitching  the  perambulator  round  with  a  sudden  jerk  :  "  Go  it,  old 
kipper,"  shouts  a  facetious  larrikin.  Alas  !  even  now  "  Regent's 
Park,"  with  its  pence  too,  was  apathetically  melting  away 
towards  that  all-important  function  of  the  day — its  "  tea." 

There  is,  indeed,  much  "life"  to  be  found  in  Regent's  Park. 

Some  of  London's  pleasantest  "  by-ways "  are  the  pretty, 
well-kept,  and  delightfully-planted  walks  of  the  Zoological 
Gardens.  One  of  the  big  gates  of  this  institution  opens  near  upon 
the  "preaching  trees"  of  Regent's  Park;  and,  certainly,  after  a 
close  experience  of  the  "human  animal,"  the  rest  of  the 
mammalia,  unoffending,  harmless,  and  discreetly  caged,  often 
occur  as  quite  a  pleasant  contrast.  (I  wonder  that  the  simile 
did  not  occur  to  Lord  Beaconsfield  himself;  it  is  certainly  in 
his  line.)  Thackeray  also,  who  enjoyed  the  Zoo  greatly,  saw, 
as  befitted  a  great  novelist,  the  human  side  of  it :  "  If  I  have 
cares  on  my  mind,"  he  wrote,  "  I  come  to  the  Zoo,  and  fancy 
they  don't  pass  the  gate ;  I  recognise  my  friends,  my  enemies, 
in  countless  cages."  Yes,  the  Zoo  is  an  unfailing  pleasure ;  I 
car  conscientiously  recommend  it,  with  one  word  of  caution  : 
Do  not  choose  a  very  hot  day  for  the  excursion ;  be  careful 


406  THE  ELEPHANT  CHAP. 

to  go  a  little  to  windward  of  the  feline  race,  and  eschew  the 
monkey  house  as  much  as  possible.  Poor  Sally  the  chimpanzee 
is  dead,  alas !  of  consumption,  and  none  of  her  successors, 
surely,  can  make  up  for  the  very  unendurable  temperature  that 
has  ever  to  be  maintained  round  them.  Monkeys  are  sad 
victims  to  pulmonary  disease ;  every  London  fog  kills,  it  is 
said,  a  few  of  them.  The  reptile  house  is,  however,  cool  and 
pleasant ;  and  the  ponds  for  aquatic  birds  are  very  charming 
resorts.  Altogether,  if  the  great  carnivora  and  the  great 
crowds  be  shunned,  the  Zoological  Garden  becomes  distinctly 
pleasant;  its  walks,  moreover,  have  all  the  unexpectedness  of 
"Alice's"  peregrinations  in  the  " Live-Flo wer-Garden,"  where, 
continually,  round  some  bowery  corner,  she  came  face  to  face 
with,  strange  and  uncanny-looking  beasts.  Just  so,  in  the 
Zoological  Gardens,  you  may  suddenly  chance  upon  an  amiable, 
blinking  Owl,  or  a  casual  Parrot,  or  a  wondering  Pelican, 
peering  at  you  round  some  bush  in  the  shrubbed  pathway. 
Yet  another  caution  :  Do  not  be  tempted,  under  any  circum- 
stances, to  ride  the  Elephant.  Its  saddle  has  a  knife-board 
seat  adapted  only  to  juveniles;  those  of  the  Society's 
servants  who  assist  you  to  mount  the  beast  are  uncomfortably 
facetious ;  and  when  you  are  at  last  safely  on  top,  you  feel 
positively  vindictive  towards  the  small  children  who,  down  in 
the  depths  below  youj  trifle  with  your  life  by  offering  your 
elephant  a  bun. 

The  Botanical  Gardens,  enclosed  by  the  ring  drive  called 
"The  Inner  Circle," are,  perhaps,  best  known  to  Londoners  by 
their  three  big  flower-shows,  held  in  May  and  June  ;  important 
functions  which  are  thronged  by  all  the  world  of  rank  and 
fashion. 

But,  delightful  as  are  these  open  spaces  and  public  gardens, 
there  is,  perhaps,  a  homelier  charm  in  one's  very  own  London 
garden, — one's  own  private  rus  in  uric.  I  myself  never  pass 
through  any  part  of  suburban  or  semi-suburban  London  by- 
railway,  without  looking  at  all  the  back-gardens  of  the  small 


xvi  WINDOW-GARDENS  407 

houses.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  says  that  a  man's  belongings 
and  house  are  an  index  of  his  character ;  but,  surely,  his  garden, 
or  even  his  yard,  is  more  so.  The  nature,  for  instance,  that 
can  willingly  content  itself  with  a  clothes-line  and  six  mouldy 
cabbage-stalks,  while  the  neighbouring  London  yards  flaunt 
the  golden  sunflower,  or  the  graceful  foxglove, — reflects,  surely, 
its  own  shallowness.  And  if  in  central  London  the  poor  have 
no  small  yard  even,  is  fhere  not  always  a  window-sill,  where 
from  some  biscuit  tin  (in  North-Italian  fashion,)  or  from  some 
painted  wooden  crate,  flowers  may  spring,  and  rejoice  the  heart 
of  many  a  poor  wanderer,  dreaming,  like  Wordsworth's  Susan, 
of  country  meadows  and  streams  ?  Even  the  sins  of  a  fried- 
fish  shop  may  be  redeemed  by  yellow  trails  of  "creeping 
jenny "  from  a  box  above  it ;  even  the  powerful  aroma  of 
"  sheeps'  trotters  "  may  be  almost  forgotten  in  the  enjoyment 
of  a  stray  plant  of  musk,  treasured  in  some  poor  man's  window- 
corner.  It  may  be  only  "  a  weakly  monthly  rose  that  don't 
grow,  or  a  tea-plant  with  five  black  leaves  and  one  green," 
yet  it  reflects  pleasantly,  none  the  less,  the  owner's  saving  grace 
of  taste.  To  some,  this  kind  of  humble  garden  has  a  charm 
all  its  own.  "  My  gardens,"  said  Gray  the  poet  proudly,  "  are 
in  the  windows  like  those  of  a  lodger  up  three  pair  of  stairs  in 
Petticoat  Lane,  or  Camomile  Street,  and  they  go  to  bed 
regularly  under  the  same  roof  that  I  do."  There  is,  I  believe, 
a  society  for  the  cultivation  of  "window-gardening"  among 
the  poor,  a  society  that  gives  prizes  to  the  best  results ;  the 
movement  is  a  good  one,  and  really  deserves  encouragement. 
To  beautify  the  dull  and  often  ugly  lives  of  the  London  poor,— 
what  society  could  have  a  much  worthier  aim  ?  How  many  a 
hideous  slum  — some  "Rosemary  Lane,"  or  "Hawthorn  Lane," 
—has  been  redeemed  from  utter  gloom  by  some  sprig  of  green- 
ery, some  frond  of  sickly  fern,  some  crippled  and  stunted  plant 
brought  there,  at  some  time,  by  some  good  angel  of  the  poor  ? 
As  to  the  occasional  gardens  of  the  larger  houses,  these, 
when  they  do  exist,  have,  to  the  faithful  Londoner,  a  beauty  all 


408  PLANE-TREES  CHAP. 

their  own  ;  shut  in  and  hidden,  they  have  something  of  the 
quiet  of  old  cathedral  closes,  as  well  as  the  charm  of  unexpect- 
edness. And  then— last,  best  of  all'!,  they  hang  out  their 
"  pavilions  of  tender  green  "  without  giving  any  trouble  in  that 
"  spring  cleaning,"  so  trying  to  London  housewives.  Of  course, 
however,  London  gardens  do  not  thrive  without  affection  and 
interest.  If  neglected,  they  die ;  if  tended,  they  repay  your 
care  with  a  gratitude  almost  human.  Too  often  the  making  of 
gardens  in  London  is  on  this  wise : — First,  the  workman,  or 
gardener,  levies  an  assortment  of  old  sardine  tins,  kettles  and 
other  household  rubbish  ;  next,  he  arranges  a  good  solid  layer 
of  brickbats ;  then  he  levels  the  "  parterre  "  with  a  few  old 
sacks  and  coats  ;  then,  finally,  he  fills  up  the  chinks  with  a  little 
dank,  sour,  half-starved  London  soil — "  dirt "  is  indeed  the 
only  name  for  it ! — adding  a  thin  layer  of  it  over  the  whole. 
Then  the  garden  is  considered  "  finished,"  and  ready  for  the 
credulous  to  sow  their  seeds.  Such  a  London  garden — a  cat- 
walk rather  than  a  thing  of  beauty — is  perhaps  only  redeemed 
from  utter  dreariness  by  an  occasional  plane-tree. 

Plane-trees,  which  thrive  in  London  because  of  their  tidy 
habit  of  shedding  their  sooty  bark  yearly,  are  luxuriant  all  over 
the  metropolis,  but  especially  so  in  Bloomsbury.  Here  also 
lived  Amy  Levy,  most  pathetic  of  London  poets,  and  here 
she  watched  and  loved  her  tree. 

"  Green  is  the  plane-tree  in  the  square, 
The  other  trees  are  brown  ; 
They  droop  and  pine  for  country  air  ; 
The  plane-tree  loves  the  town. 

"  Here,  from  my  garret-pane,  I  mark 
The  plane-tree  bud  and  blow, 
Shed  her  recuperative  bark, 
And  spread  her  shade  below. 

"  Among  her  branches,  in  and  out, 
The  city  breezes  play ; 
The  dun  fog  wraps  her  round  about ; 
Above,  the  smoke  curls  grey. 


xvi  CATS  AND  CAT- WALKS  409 

"Others  the  country  take  for  choice, 
And  hold  the  town  in  scorn ; 
But  she  has  listened  to  the  voice 
Of  city  breezes  borne." 

The  purple  clematis  jackmanni,  which  flowers  so  well  in 
the  Regent's  Park  terraces  and  in  Kensington,  flowers  also 
yearly  on  a  certain  sunny  balcony  in  Tavistock  Square  ;  the 
iris  hangs  out  its  brilliant  flags  every  summer  in  St.  Pancras 
Churchyard — close  under  those  smoke-begrimed  Caryatids 
whose  sad  eyes  gaze  ever,  not  on  to  the  Peiraeus  and  to  the 
Aegean  Sea,  but  towards  the  dreary  and  everlastingly  murky 
Euston  Road. 

Even  grass  will  grow  in  shut-in,  walled  Bloomsbury  gardens ; 
it  may,  indeed,  sometimes  require  treating  as  an  "  annual " ; 
but  what  of  that  ?  If  the  difficulties  of  the  London  garden  are 
great,  why,  so  are  its  joys. 

Cats  are,  of  course,  the  primal  difficulty.  We  know  how 
lately  the  "  Carlyle  House  "  in  Chelsea  was  cursed  with  them  ; 
it  is  said,  also,  that  a  certain  eccentric  lady  once  lived 
with  a  family  of  some  eighty-six  cats,  in  a  house  in  South- 
ampton Row.  The  descendants  of  these  cats  must,  one  thinks, 
still  haunt  the  neighbourhood,  to  judge  from  the  number  that 
prowl  in  it.  Cats,  in  London,  often  become  wild  animals, 
and  lose  all  their  domestic  charm.  "  Cats,"  as  the  little 
Board  School  essayist  naively  wrote  :  "  has  nine  liveses,  which 
is  seldom  required  in  this  country  'cos  of  yumanity."  The 
"  yumanity  "  in  question  seems,  however,  to  be  rather  at  a  dis- 
count in  London.  For  cats'  owners  have  a  distracting  habit 
of  going  away  for  the  summer  and  leaving  the  poor  beasts,  so 
to  speak,  "  on  the  parish."  Five  such  cats,  starving  and  sick, 
have. I,  to  my  own  knowledge,  gently  released  from  a  cruel 
world  at  a  neighbouring  chemist's.  A  little  boy — one  "  of  the 
streets  streety,"  once  held  poor  pussy  while  the  quietus — of 
prussic  acid — was  administered  :  "  Won't  I  jest  ? "  he  said 
with  glee  when  asked  to  officiate.  "  Won'erful  stuff,  that 


410  IMPERTINENT  SPARROWS  CHAP. 

'ere,  Miss  ! "  he  remarked  at  the  close  of  the  sad  ceremony  ; 
adding,  admiringly,  "  w'y,.  that  ket  did'nt  mow  once  !  "  "  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  her  ?  "  I  inquired  of  the  youth,  who 
now  carried  the  corpse  dangling  by  one  leg.  "  Throw  'er  over 
the  fust  garding  wall  I  come  to,"  he  replied,  grinning.  Thus, 
I  reflected,  the  poor  London  garden  is  still  the  victim  ! 

A  dead  cat  may  be  an  awkward  visitor,  but  the  surviving 
cats  are  the  bane  of  London  gardens.  Their  courtships — on 
the  garden-wall — are  long  and  musical,  causing  even  the 
merciful  to  yearn  for  a  syringe  at  all  costs.  The  sparrows  are 
a  far  lesser  evil.  They,  indeed,  eat  the  garden  seeds  ;  nothing 
on  earth  is  sacred  to  a  London  sparrow  or  robin.  It  is 
impossible,  by  any  system,  however  well- devised,  to  outwit 
them.  They  are  afraid  of  nothing.  Set  up  an  elaborate 
scarecrow  in  the  garden  ;  for  the  space,  perhaps,  of  one  hour  it 
will  puzzle  them ;  but  in  a  day  or  two  they  will  hop  and  twitter 
familiarly  about  it,  even  to  the  extent  of  pecking  bits  of  thread 
from  it  for  their  impertinent  nests.  Get  a  toy  cat  and  place  it 
on  the  flower-bed ;  in  twenty  four  hours  they  will  have  dis 
covered  that  the  thing  is  a  hollow  sham,  and  will  sit  comfort- 
ably in  the  warmth  of  its  artificial  fur.  But  one  forgives  them  ; 
for  the  birds,  after  all,  are  the  chief  joy  of  London  gardens. 
Their  twitter  is  sweet  on  spring  mornings ;  in  winter,  the 
robins  and  sparrows  may  be  tamed  by  feeding,  almost  to  the 
extent  of  coming  into  the  house  itself  for  crumbs ;  and,  in 
the  summer,  if  you  set  them  a  shallow  bath  every  day  for  their 
disporting,  they  will  rejoice  your  heart  by  their  watery  antics. 
Robins  and  sparrows  are  alike  charming ;  the  robins  are  the 
stronger ;  a  single  robin,  pecking  about  on  the  garden  step  for 
his  breakfast,  will  scatter  a  host  of  sparrows  ;  but  it  is  the 
sparrows,  after  all,  that  form  the  real  bird  population  of 
London.  Though  they  appreciate  a  quiet  back  garden,  they 
seem  also  to  delight  in  the  noise,  traffic,  and  bustle  of  the 
streets.  Their  cleverness,  and  their  strength  too,  surpass 
belief;  they  even  seem  to  have  aesthetic  tastes  (did  I  not  see, 


xvi  EFFECTS  OF  LIGHT  411 

hist  month,  a  sparrow  decorate  its  nest  with  an  overhanging 
sprig  of  laburnum,  or  "golden  chain?");  and  they  are, 
besides,  as  irrepressible  as  the  London  street  arabs,  with 
whom  they  have  much  in  common ;  for  they  are  the  "gamins" 
of  the  bird  world.  For  their  parental  instinct,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  is,  in  London  at  least,  not  much  to  be  said ;  their 
way  of  dealing  with  their  recalcitrant  offspring  would  seem  to 
be  a  trifle  overbearing,  for  in  early  spring  small,  half-fledged 
corpses  are  often  to  be  found,  dropped  unkindly  from  nests  into 
back-gardens.  But,  perhaps,  as  the  small  boy  said  of  King 
Solomon,  "  havin'  so  many,  they  can  afford  to  be  wasteful  of 
'em."  There  are,  indeed,  many.  On  the  statue  of  Francis 
Russell,  5th  Duke  of  Bedford,  in  Russell  Square, — a  figure, 
rising  erect,  in  the  curious  taste  of  the  time,  from  a  nest  of  cupids 
and  clouds, — sparrows  have  built  many  nests.  The  chinks  in 
the  giant's  robe  are  black,  in  spring,  with  their  tiny  heads ;  the 
curly  hair  of  the  cupids  is  fluffed  with  their  downy  feathers. 

I  have  elsewhere  touched  on  the  great  picturesqueness  of 
London  views — a  picturesqueness  always  more  or  less  coloured 
and  influenced  by  romance  and  by  history  ;  the  past  and  the 
present,  the  natural  and  the  artificial — all  blended  into  one 

glory  :— 

"  glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 
....   the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be." 

Especially  beautiful  are  the  effects  of  light  that  are  obtain- 
able on  early  summer  mornings,  or  on  lurid,  stormy,  autumn 
evenings — evenings  when  the  sun  sinks  with  such  splendour 
of  attendant  fires  as  is  rarely  seen  away  from  the  great 
city.  The  vivid  effects  are  largely  increased  by  the  smoky 
atmosphere.  What  more  mysteriously  fine,  for  instance, 
than  the  view  of  St.  Paul's,  looking  up  Ludgate  Hill,  with,  in 
the  foreground,  the  railway  bridge,  emitting  smoke,  raised 
high  above  the  narrow  street ;  and  the  black,  thin  spirelet  of 
St.  Martin's,  as  the  attendant  "  aiguille  "  leading  the  eye  up  to 
the  colossal  dome  of  grey  St.  Paul's? —  .. 


\\2  LONDON  HARMONIES  CHAP. 

"  Here,  like  a  bishop,  upon  dainties  fed, 
St.  Paul  lifts  up  his  sacerdotal  head  ; 
While  his  lean  curates,  slim  and  lank  to  view, 
Around  them  point  their  steeples  to  the  blue." 

Or  what,  on  a  fine  morning  of  summer,  can  be  more  in- 
spiring than  the  white  and  silver  harmonies  of  Cheapside, 
dominated  by  the  pale  tower  of  St.  Mary-le-Bow?  Or  the 
sublimity  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  that  embattled  mass 
with  its  tall  tower,  backed  by  stormy,  gold-edged  threatening 
clouds,  through  which  the  sunlight  breaks  ?  "  Sky  and  cloud 
and  smoke  and  buildings  are  all  mingled  as  if  they  belonged 
to  each  other,  and  man's  work  stretching  heavenward  is  touched 
with  the  sublimity  of  nature."  Or  Trafalgar  Square,  as  I  saw 
it  lately,  on  a  winter  twilight ;  its  tall  pillars  grey-black  against 
a  lurid  sky,  its  fountain  alchymised  to  a  molten  mass  of  pearl- 
white,  its  geysers  to  sparkling  brilliants,  a  "  nocturne  "  of  silver 
and  gold  ?  Or  the  Turneresque  brilliance  of  light  'and 
splendour  on  the  river  — that  river  to  which  London  owes  all 
her  prosperity  and  all  her  fame— that  river  of  which  already, 
with  true  feeling  and  eighteenth-century  artificiality,  Alexander 
Pope  wrote :  — 

"  her  figured  streams  in  waves  of  silver  rolled, 
And  on  her  banks  Augusta  rose  in  gold." 

But  of  all  the  views  of  London,  perhaps  none  is  so  fine, 
and  certainly  none  is  so  comprehensive,  as  that  which  may  be 
obtained,  under  favourable  conditions,  from  Primrose  Hill — 
that  "little  molehill,"  as  it  has  been  called,  "in  the  great 
wen's  northern  flank."  It  is  a  splendid  and  inspiring  panorama. 
Few  people  know  of  it ;  yet  it  is  a  sight  not  to  be  forgotten. 
Go  thither  on  a  clear  spring  or  summer  evening,  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  before  sunset,  and  you  will  be  richly  repaid.  What 
a  view  !  Grime  and  dinginess  are  as  they  were  not ;  the  smoky 
atmosphere  is  transformed,  as  if  by  magic,  to  a  golden,  trans- 
parent haze — mellowing,  brightening,  idealising.  "Who,"  as 


xvi  VIEW  FROM  PRIMROSE  HILL  413 

a  recent  writer  says,  "would  have  imagined  that  this  grimy, 
smoky  wilderness  of  houses,  with  its  factories  and  its  slums, 
.  .  .  could  ever  look  like  the  fair  and  beautiful  city  of  some 
ethereal  vision,  embosomed  in  trees  and  full  of  glorious  stately 
monuments  ?  It  is  even  so.  Regent's  Park  lies  below,  a  frame 
of  restful  greenery.  To  the  left  rises  Camden  Town — prosaic 
neighbourhood  !— up  a  gentle  slope.  In  the  evening  sunlight 
it  is  transfigured  into  a  mass  of  brightness  and  colour,  rising 
in  clear-ciit  terraces,  like  some  fair  city  on  an  Italian  hill-top. 
St.  Pancras  Station  is  a  thing  of  beauty,  with  a  Gothic  spire, 
and  lines  like  those  of  a  Venetian  palazzo  on  the  Grand  Canal. 
Hard  by  rises  the  dome  of  the  Reading-Room  of  the  British 
Museum,  embowered  in  trees — a  stately  witness  to  the  learning 
of  a  continent.  St.  Paul's  soars  up  grandly  above  its  sister 
spires,  in  misty  purple — dominating  feature  of  the  city— as  St. 
Peter's  in  Rome.  Away  towards  the  mouth  of  the  river  rises 
the  high  line  of  Blackheath,  and  the  hills  of  the  Thames 
valley  curve  round  in  a  noble  sweep  above  the  light  haze  which 
marks  the  unseen  river,  past  the  crest  of  Sydenham  Hill  with 
the  Crystal  Palace  shining  out  white  and  clear,  past  Big  Ben 
and  the  Abbey,  and  the  Mother  of  Parliaments,  to  where  the 
ridges  above  Guildford  and  Dorking  fade  away  into  '  the 
fringes  of  the  southward-facing  brow '  of  Sussex  and  Hamp- 
shire, towards  the  English  Channel.  Innumerable  slender 
church  spires  point  upwards  to  the  wide  over-arching  sky. 
Northward,  again,  are  the  wooded  heights  of  Highgate  and 
Hampstead,  and  the  long  battlemented  line  of  the  fortress  at 
Holloway.  What  a  view  i  On  Primrose  Hill  on  a  summer's 
evening  the  Londoner  feels,  indeed,  that  he  is  a  citizen  of  no 
mean  city.  Wordsworth,  truly,  thought  that  'Earth  had  not 
anything  to  show  more  fair '  than  the  view  from  Westminster 
Bridge  in  the  early  morning.  But  it  needs  a  modern  poet — a 
poet  of  the  whole  English-speaking  race — to  do  justice  to  this 
view  of  the  great  city  on  the  Thames,  lying  bathed  in  the 
magic  glow  of  a  summer  sunset  beneath  Primrose  Hill." 


A  Jury. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  WAYS  OF  LONDONERS 

"  Laughing,  weeping,  hurrying  ever, 
Hour  by  hour  they  crowd  along, 
While  below  the  mighty  river 
Sings  them  all  a  mocking  song." — Molloy. 

"  An  ever -muttering  prisoned  storm, 
The  heart  of  London  beating  warm."— -John  Davidson. 

WHAT  is  the  best  way  to  see  London  ?  "  From  the  top  of 
a  'bus,"  Mr.  Gladstone  is  said  to  have  sagely  remarked.  And 
if  you  can  study  London  itself  from  the  top  of  a  'bus,  you  can 
also,  from  the  interior  of  the  same  convenient,  if  not  always 
savoury,  vehicle,  study  the  ways  of  Londoners.  For,  as  means 
of  transit,  omnibuses  and  road-cars  are  every  decade,  nay, 
every  year,  coming  yet  more  into  popularity.  Soon  the  patient 
horses  that  drag  them  will  disappear  and  they  will  transform 
themselves  into  "  motor-omnibuses,"  but  their  general  character 
will  be  still  unaltered.  Whether  the  new  electric  railway  along 
Oxford  Street  will  at  all  affect  the  omnibus  public,  is  a  question 
to  be  considered  ;  but  up  to  now  these  popular  vehicles  have 
certainly  had  it  all  their  own  way.  To  the  unsophisticated, 
there  seems  now  even  a  dash  of  adventure  about  them.  Why, 


CH.   XVII 


GARDEN  SEATS 


415 


it  is  only  some  twenty  years  since  it  was  considered  bold  for  a 
young  woman  to  venture  into  that  hitherto  exclusively  male 


'Bus  Driver. 


precinct,  the  very  select  "  knifeboard  "  ;  and  now,  the  top  of  a 
'bus  usually  harbours  not  one,  but  a  majority  of  females,  while 
the  uncomfortable  "  knifeboard  "  itself  has  given  place  to  the 


416  NATIONAL  RESERVE  CHAP. 

luxurious  "  garden-seat."  Then,  it  was  in  old  days  considered 
necessary  to  talk  of  "  omnibuses,  and  now,  'bus  is  a  term  as 
common  as  "  the  Zoo,"  and  used  not  only  by  "  the 
masses,"  but  even  by  purists  in  the  English  language. 

The  ways  of  Londoners,  then,  as  studied  in  the  ubiquitous 
"  'bus,"  are  not  at  all  the  ways  of  any  other  people.  To  begin 
with,  the  stranger  should  be  warned  of  the  fact  that  the  average 
Londoner  resents  being  spoken  to.  He,  or  she,  regards  it  as  an 
unwarrantable  liberty.  For  the  Londoner, — at  any  rate  that 
Londoner  whose  honour  it  is  to  belong  to  the  great  and 
respectable  "  middle  class,"  prides  himself  on  "  keeping  'isself 
to  'isself."  He, — or,  again,  it  is  generally  she, — is  nothing  if  not 
conventional,  and  dreads  nothing  in  life  so  much  as  the 
unexpected.  If,  therefore,  you  should  show  such  bad  taste  as  to 
suddenly  die  in  the  'bus,  or  in  the  street,  a  dirty  crowd  would, 
it  is  true,  soon  collect  round  you,  but  the  more  respect- 
able would,  like  the  Levite,  "pass  by  on  the  other  side," 
preferring  "  not  to  mix  themselves  up  with  any  unpleasantness." 
"  People  in  London  are  so  rude,"  I  remarked  once  sadly  to  a 
"  lady  friend  "  of  mine  who  lived  in  a  "  two  pair  back  "  in  a 
select  mews  :  "  Wyeverdfo  you  speak  to  'em  ?  "  was  her  retort — 
evidently  on  the  principle  that  you  can't  expect  anything  from 
a  wolf  but  a  bite. 

But  the  lowest  classes  are  more  genial.  They  have  not  got 
such  an  overpowering  amount  of  gentility  to  keep ,  up.  They 
can  even  afford  to  be  sympathetic.  Once  I  happened  to  have 
to  ring  up  a  doctor  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  Hardly 
had  I  pulled  twice  at  the  midnight  bell,  when  with  Gamp-like  - 
alacrity  two  strange  figures  hurried  up,  and  inquired  with 
breathless  anxiety,  "Anyone  pizened,  Miss?"  adding,  with 
knowledge  bom  of  experience,  "  Knock  at  the  winder."  The 
advice  was  at  all  events  opportune.  Yes,  the  very  poor  have 
always  a  certain  rude,  Dickensian,  good  nature.  Thus,  if  an 
old  market-woman,  for  instance,  happen  to  jump  into  your 
'bus  at  Covent  Garden,  she  will  amiably  rest  her  big  (and 


xvii  OMNIBUS  ROMANCE  417 

distinctly  savoury)  basket  half  on  your  knees,  and,  mopping 
her  crimson  face  with  a  dishcloth,  "  pass  "  you  the  time  of 
day.  On  the  other  hand,  a  great  lady  and  her  fashionably 
dressed  daughter  will  (if  you  happen  to  offer  your  own  place 
for  their  acceptance)  take  it  without  so  much  as  "  thank  you," 
and  will  then  proceed  to  eye  you  superciliously  through  a 
lorgnette.  Truly,  our  manners  do  not  improve,  in  all  respects, 
with  our  social  status. 

Max  O'Rell,  in  John  Bull  and  his  Island,  has  well  hit  off 
the  Englishman's  little  ways  when  travelling  by  omnibus  : 

"Ask  John  Bull  if  you  are  in  the  right  for  such  and  such  a  place  ;  you 
will  get  yes  or  no  for  an  answer,  and  nothing  more.  When  he  enters  an 
omnibus  or  a  railway  carriage,  if  he  does  not  recognise  any  one,  he- eyes 
his  fellow  travellers  askance  in  a  sulky  and  suspicious  way.  He  seems  to 
say,  '  What  a  bore  it  is  that  all  you  people  can't  walk  home,  and  let  a  man 
have  the  carriage  comfortably  to  himself  .  .  .  .'  London  omnibuses  are 
made  to  seat  six  persons  on  each  side.  These  places  are  not  marked  out. 
When,  on  entering,  you  find  five  people  on  either  hand,  you  must  not  hope 
to  see  any  one  move  to  make  room  for  you.  No,  here  everything  is  left  to 
personal  initiative.  You  simply  try  to  spy  out  the  two  pairs  of  thighs  that 
seem  to  you  the  best  padded,  and  with  all  your  weight  you  let  yourself 
down  between  them.  No  need  to  apologise,  no  one  will  think  of  calling 
you  a  bad  name." 

There  is  much  character  to  be  met  with  in  a  'bus.  The 
incipient  or  embryo  novelist  should  be  encouraged  to  travel  by 
them.  From  the  time  when  the  poet  Shelley  frightened  the 
Highgate  old  lady  in  a  'bus,  by  his  odd  invitation  to  : 

"  sit  upon  the  ground, 
And  tell  strange  stories  of  the  death  of  kings  .   .   .  ." 

— many  romances  have  been  enacted,  many  curious  histories 
related  in  them.  Omnibuses  have  before  now  been  utilised  as 
meeting-grounds  for  young  couples  whose  courtship  was 
tabooed  by  unkind  parents,  and  who  consequently  discovered 
pressing  engagements  requiring  their  presence  at  "  Hercules 
Buildings,"  or  "  the  Elephant,"  as  the  case  might  be.  Mr. 

E    E 


418  OMNIBUS  TRAGEDY  CHAP. 

Anstey  Guthrie's  amusing  conversations,  overheard  in  the 
'bus,  and  his  intense  anxiety  as  to  the  never  discovered 
denoiiment  of  the  thrilling  story  about  "  the  button-hook 
as  opened  George's  eyes,"  we  have  all  known  and  laughed  over. 
But  the  omnibus, — mere  comedy  on  a  bright,  dusty,  spring  or 
summer  day,  when  its  garden-seats  shine  resplendent  in  new 
paint, — becomes  rather  a  thing  of  grim  tragedy  on  muddy  days 
of  winter  gloom,  when  the  rain  comes  down  in  torrents,  and 
a  stern  "  Full  inside,"  is  all  the  response  the  weary  wayfarer 
gets  after  waiting  long  minutes, — painful,  jostled  minutes,  — for 
the  desired  vehicle,  of  which,  as  Calverley  says  : 

".   .  .  .   some,  like  monarchs,  glow 
With  richest  purple  ;  some  are  blue 
As  skies  that  tempt  the  swallows  back. 
Or  red  as,  seen  o'er  wintry  seas, 
The  star  of  storm  ;  or  barred  with  black 
And  yellow,  like  the  April  bees." 

The  omnibus  conductors  are  generally  uncommunicative, 
and  often  morose — perhaps,  from  too  frequent  digs  in  the 
ribs  from  fussy  old  ladies  and  choleric  old  gentlemen.  Some 
of  them,  too,  refuse  to  wait  for  you  unless  you  pretend  to 
have  a  broken  leg,  or  at  least  to  be  half-paralyzed  ;  yet,  even 
among  'bus  conductors,  there  are  still  occasional  pearls  to 
be  met  with.  In  one  thing  they  show  remarkable  aptitude ; 
namely,  in  an  interchange  of  wit  with  the  drivers  of  rival 
vehicles.  On  these  occasions  their  sallies,  considering  their 
very  limited  vocabulary,  are  often  quite  brilliantly  forcible.  In 
a  "  block  "  in  Oxford  Street  or  the  Strand,  or  after  a  "  liquor- 
up  "  at  a  convenient  "pub,"  such  flights  of  humour  will  often 
while  away  the  time  very  agreeably  for  the  passenger  inside, 
that  is,  if  he  be  not  too  nervously  fearful  of  being  drawn 
into  the  dispute  himself.  Omnibus  conductors,  however, 
"  frivel "  as  they  may  among  themselves,  are  as  adamant  where 
any  infringement  of  their  rules  by  their  passengers  is  concerned. 
Why  they  continually  insist— against  all  show  of  reason  too — 


FULL  INSIDE 


419 


on  seating  no  less  than  six  fat  people  on  one  side  of  their 
vehicle,  and  no  more  than  six  thin  ones  on  the  other,  has 
always  been  a  mystery  to  me.  It  is,  however,  as  a  law  of  the 


Inside. 

Medes  and  Persians,  for  it  knows  no  alteration.  But  it  has  at 
any  rate  the  merit  of  pointing  the  parable  about  the  fat  and 
the  lean  kine. 

Fat  people,  it   must  be   confessed,  have  a  peculiar  affinity 

E  E  2 


420  OMNIBUS  CHARACTER  CHAP. 

for  omnibuses.  The  contents  of  a  'bus  are,  I  have  observed, 
nearly  always  fat.  An  omnibus  journey  is,  by  the  obese, 
regarded  as  so  much  exercise.  An  old  tradesman  of  my 
acquaintance  who  suffered  from  liver  was  lately  ordered  exer- 
cise by  his  doctor.  Thereupon  he  took,  like  Mrs.  Carlyle, 
one  sad  shilling's  worth  of  omnibus  per  day,  and  was  sur- 
prised when,  at  the  end  of  a  month,  he  felt  no  better.  "  One 
shilling's  worth  of  omnibus  !  " — horrible  suggestion  !  It  must 
have  taken  nearly  three  hours,  for  the  cost  of  omnibus  journeys 
can  generally  be  reckoned  at  a  penny  for  every  ten  minutes. 
The  distance  traversed  is  immaterial,  as  the  traveller  will  soon 
discover.  If  he  wishes  to  catch  any  particular  train  he  had 
better  allow  twenty  minutes  a  mile  to  be  quite  on  the  safe 
side. 

On  rainy  days,  character  in  omnibus  is  yet  more  self- 
revealing.  Thus,  a  wayfarer  gets  in  with  a  wet  cloak  and  wet 
umbrella ;  no  one  shows  any  desire  to  make  room.  The  'five 
lean  kine  on  the  one  side  spread  themselves  out ;  the 
five  fat  ones  on  the  other  expand  also.  The  new-comer 
stumbles,  the  wet  cloak  splashes  every  one,  the  umbrella  drips 
genially ;  it  is  a  pleasant  sight.  When  room  is  finally  made 
and  the  wanderer  seated,  the  wet  garments  soon  exhale  a 
fragrant  steam — which  scent  mingles  with  the  odours  of  cabbage, 
peppermint,  or  onions,  already  discernible.  These  scents,  it 
may  be  added,  vary  in  different  quarters  of  London.  Thus, 
onions  are  partial  to  Long  Acre ;  antiseptics  to  Southampton 
Row ;  cheap  scent  to  Oxford  Street  and  Holborn  ;  whisky, 
perhaps,  to  "  the  'Ampstid  Road  " ;  general  frowsiness  to  King's 
Road,  Chelsea ;  and  the  aroma  of  elegant  furs  to  the  shades 
of  Kensington.  Omnibus  scents  vary,  too,  with  "  the  varying 
year."  In  the  spring  it  is  leeks  and  "  spring  onions  " ;  in  the 
winter  it  is  paraffin  or  eucalyptus ;  in  the  summer  it  is  in- 
describable. 

Yet,  it  must  be  said  on  behalf  of  human  nature,  that  there 
is  kindness  to  be  met  with  even  in  the  maligned  'bus.  If,  for 


XVII 


ROOM  OUTSIDE 


421 


instance,  some  "  absent-minded  beggar  "  should  happen  to  get 
in  without  possessing  the  necessary  pence,  at  least  half  the 
'bus  are  immediately  ready  to  offer  the  deficit ;  and  hands  are 
similarly  always  stretched  out  to  help  in  the  lame  and  the  blind. 


';  Bcnk,  Benkll" 


Even  should  a  fellow  passenger  be  exceptionally  conver- 
sational, it  does  not,  I  may  add,  usually  answer  to  talk  much 
to  the  casual  neighbour  on  a  'bus,  even  if  it  be  by  way  of 
ingratiating  yourself  with  "  the  masses."  Especially  does  this 


422  OMNIBUS  ACQUAINTANCE  CHAP. 

rule  hold  good  where  young  women  are  concerned.  A  seriously- 
minded  girl — a  girl,  too,  who  was  not  a  bit  of  a  flirt,  or 
indeed  remarkably  pretty— once  confessed  to  me  her  sad  ex- 
periences in  that  line.  Being  much  interested  in  democratic 
politics,  she  had  one  fine  day  begun  to  talk — on  the  'bus  roof- 
to  a  young  artisan  on  the  "  Eight  Hours'  Bill."  She  imagined 
herself  to  be  getting  along  swimmingly,  when  suddenly  the 
young  man,  hitherto  very  intelligent  and  respectful,  began  to 
"  nudge  "  her  (this  being,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  the  first 
preliminary  to  courtship  in  his  class).  From  "nudging"  he 
proceeded  to  "  squeezing  " ;  and,  finally,  could  it  be  fancy,  or 
was  it  an  arm  that  began  ominously  to  encircle  her  waist  ? 
She  did  not  stay  to  investigate  the  phenomenon,  but  clambered 
down  the  iron  staircase  with  inelegant  haste — a  sadder  and  a 
wiser  young  woman  ! 

Another  time  I  myself  was  "  riding,"  as  the  Cockneys  term 
it,  on  the  outside  of  a  'bus  towards  the  sylvan  park  of  Ken- 
nington,  and,  fired  no  doubt  by  the  lovely  summer  day,  began 
— with  more  enthusiasm  than  prudence — to  discuss  current 
topics  with  my  neighbour  on  the  "  garden  seat."  He  was  a 
well-mannered  youth,  and  for  a  while  I  was  much  edified  by 
his  conversation — until,  that  is,  his  sudden  interjection  of 
"  There's  a  taisty  'at  a-crawsin '  of  the  rowd,"  in  some  inex- 
plicable manner  cooled  me  off. 

Carlyle  was  a  constant  traveller  by  'bus,  which  -economy,  it 
may  be,  agreed  well  with  his  Scotch  thriftiness.  Mrs.  Carlyle, 
on  one  of  her  solitary  returns  to  their  Chelsea  home,  describes 
him  as  meeting  her  by  the  omnibus,  scanning  the  passengers 
(like  the  Peri  at  the  gate)  from  under  his  well-known  old  white 
hat.  This  white  hat,  even  in  Carlyle's  day,  used  to  attract 
attention.  "  Queer  'at  the  old  gent  wears,"  once  remarked  an 
unconsciously  irreverent  passenger  to  the  conductor  of  the 
Chelsea  omnibus.  "Queer  'at,"  retorted  the  conductor 
reprovingly  ;  "  it  may  be  a  queer  'at,  but  what  would  you  give 
for  the  'ed-piece  that's  inside  of  it  ?  " 


xvn  HANSOMS  AND  GROWLERS  423 

Cabs  are  vastly  more  luxurious  than  omnibuses,  but  are  to 
be  rigidly  eschewed  by  the  economical,  except  in  cases  where 
time  is  of  as  much  value  as  money.  The  fact  is,  that  it  is 
almost  necessary  to  overpay  cabmen,  and  especially  so  if  the 
"  fare  "  be  at  all  nervous.  Hence  it  has  been  said  with  some 
truth,  that  life,  to  be  at  all  worth  living  in  London,  should 
disregard  extra  sixpences.  People  of  the  Jonas  Chuzzlewit 
type  may,  indeed,  take  cabs  to  their  utmost  shilling  limits, 
but  this  is  a  proceeding  hardly  to  be  recommended  to  the 
sensitive.  For  the  average  cabman  is  prodigal  in  retort,  and 
not  generally  reticent  on  the  subject  of  imagined  wrong.  In 
the  season  overpaying  is  more  than  ever  necessary,  while 
hiring  "  by  the  hour  "  is,  at  least  by  the  nervous,  to  be  depre- 
cated. The  familiar  device  of  paying  one  penny  per  minute, 
though  fair  enough  in  fact,  has  been  characterised  as  "  only 
possible  to  the  hardened  Londoner."  Some  people  make  a 
practice  of  only  overpaying  the  cabman  when,  like  John  Gilpin, 
they  are  "  on  pleasure  bent "  ;  yet  I  do  not  know  how  the 
cabman  is  supposed  to  divine  their  mission. 

The  hansom — "  the  gondola  of  London,"  as  Disraeli  called 
it — is  far  preferable  to  the  antiquated  "  four-wheeler  "  or 
"growler,"  a  vehicle  which  has  never  been  really  popular 
since  Wainwright  murdered  Harriet  Lane,  and  inconsiderately 
carried  about  her  mutilated  body  in  one  of  these  conveyances, 
tied  up  in  American  cloth.  True,  hansoms  have  their  faults. 
Thus  the  hansom  horse  is  sometimes  afflicted  with  a  mania 
for  going  round  and  round  in  a  manner  which  suggests  his 
having  been  brought  up  in  a  circus.  Sometimes  he  does 
nothing  but  twist  his  head  back  to  look  at  his  fare ;  sometimes 
he  persists  on  turning  into  every  "  mews  "  he  passes ;  some- 
times he  jibs  in  a  way  altogether  distracting  to  a  nervous 
passenger  who  can  only,  for  the  moment,  behold  the  horse  and 
the  driver;  but  still  there  is  a  "smartness"  about  the  well- 
turned-out  hansom  that  cannot  be  gainsaid.  The  acme  of 
smartness  is,  perhaps,  a  private  hansom  with  a  liveried 


424 


CABMEN 


CHAP. 


driver ;  these,  however,  are  exclusively  seen  in  the  haunts  of 
fashion.  It  is,  perhaps,  well  for  the  London  resident  to  be 
liberally  inclined,  for  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  his 
or  her  "  ways  "  become  known  to  the  cab-driving  community, 
and  facilities  for  getting  cabs  largely  depend  on  their  verdict. 
It  may  be  added  that  if  the  hansom-driver  is  inclined  to  be 
pert  (a  natural  inclination,  considering  the  height  of  his 


The  Hansom. 

elevation  above  the  general  public),  more  generally  the  "growler" 
is  morose,  and  given  to  a  huskiness  that  is  suggestive  of 
that  abode  of  light  and  polished  brass — the  "poor  man's 
club." 

The  visitors  to  London  vary,  like  the  omnibus  scents,  with 
the  varying  year.  In  the  spring  and  early  summer,  it  is  the 
fashionable  world  that  mainly  haunts  its  streets  ;  in  the  later 


xvii  THE  MAN  IN  BLUE  425 

summer,  the  French,  Italians,  Germans — especially  Germans — 
flock  with  everlasting  red  Baedekers  (indeed,  in  the  London 
streets  in  August,  you  but  rarely  hear  your  own  language 
spoken) ;  in  autumn,  it  is  chiefly  Americans  who  abound, 
provided  with  all  "Europe "  in  the  compass  of  one  guide- 
book;  in  January  the  country  cousins,  and  thrifty  house- 
wives generally,  come  up  for  the  day,  armed  with  lists  of 
alarming  length,  to  swell  the  crowds  at  the  winter  sales. 

One  of  the  things  that  strikes  the  foreigner,  new  to  England 
and  England's  ways,  most  in  London,  is  the  regulation  of  the 
street  traffic.  The  innumerable  vehicles  that  throng  the  high- 
ways of  London,  every  moment  threatening,  or  seeming  to 
threaten,  a  "  block  "  ;  the  continuous  rumble  of  many  wheels,— 
omnibuses,  cabs,  drays,  vans,  bicycles,  motors, — all  these,  an 
apparently  limitless  force,  are  stopped,  as  if  by  magic,  by  "  the 
man  in  blue  "  simply  holding  up  an  arm.  All  power,  for  the 
moment,  is  vested  in  him ;  he  is  here  the  one  authority  against 
which  there  is  no  appeal.  Under  the  protection  of  the  police- 
man's aegis,  the  most  timid  foot-passenger  may  pass  in  perfect 
security ;  the  flood  will  be  stayed  while  his  arm,  like  that  of 
Moses  of  old,  is  raised.  And  there  is  no  such  thing  as  dis- 
obedience. Be  the  bicyclist  never  so  bold,  be  the  hansom- 
driver  never  so  smart,  woe  betide  him  if  he  disobey  the  man- 
date !  Under  the  policeman's  faithful  pilotage,  the  big  crossings 
are  safe  ;  danger  only  lurks  in  the  smaller  ones,  where  his  presence 
is  not  felt.  The  "  man  in  blue  "  is,  generally,  a  charming  and 
urbane  personage  ;  if,  in  the  exercise  of  his  calling,  he  some- 
times chance  to  develop  a  certain  curtness,  it  is,  perhaps,  that 
he  has  in  his  time  been  overmuch  badgered.  .  .  His  urbanity, 
as  a  rule,  is  marvellous  ;  and  in  great  contrast  to  that  of  his 
continental  brethren.  In  Germany,  the  officer  of  the  law 
shakes  his  fist  in  people's  faces ;  in  France,  he  gesticulates 
wildly ;  in  Italy,  he  is  timid  and  ineffectual ;  in  England,  he 
merely  raises  his  arm,  and  behold  !  like  the  gods  on  Olympus, 
he  is  obeyed. 


426  LONDON  ISOLATION  CHAP. 

Londoners  are  a  curiously  callous  race,  and  are,  as  has  been 
shown,  remarkably  little  interested  in  their  neighbours.  The 
fact  is,  their  life  is  much  too  busy  for  such  interest.  In  the 
country,  your  neighbours  know  everything  you  do,  your  business, 
your  position,  your  income  even.  In  London,  all  that  your 
neighbours  know  of  you  is  that  you  come  and  that  you  go  ; 
and,  once  gone,  your  place  knows  you  no  more.  Miss  Amy 
Levy,  who,  more  than  any  other  poet,  has  expressed  the  feeling 
of  London  streets,  puts  the  idea  well,  in  these  most  pathetic 
lines  : 

"  They  trod  the  streets  and  squares  where  now  I  tread, 
With  weary  hearts,  a  little  while  ago  ; 
When,  thin  and  grey,  the  melancholy  snow 
Clung  to  the  leafless  branches  overhead  ; 
Or  when  the  smoke-veiled  sky  grew  stormy-red 
In  autumn  ;  with  a  re-arisen  woe 

Wrestled,  what  time  the  passionate  spring  winds  blow  ; 
And  paced  scorched  stones  in  summer  ; — they  are  dead. 

"  The  sorrow  of  their  souls  to  them  did  seem 
As  real  as  mine  to  me,  as  permanent. 
To-day,  it  is  the  shadow  of  a  dream, 
The  half-forgotten  breath  of  breezes  spent. 
So  shall  another  soothe  his  woe  supreme — 
No  more  he  comes,  who  this  way  came  and  went." 

(A  London  Plane- Tree.} 

The  Londoner  dies— the  great  bell  of  St.  Pancras  may  toll 
out  his  sixty  years,  or  the  deep  tones  of  Westminster  call  to 
his  memorial  service ;  yet  none  the  less  a  dance  is  given  at  the 
house  next  door,  and  the  immediate  neighbours  know  not  of 
the  death  until  they  see  the  hearse  and  the  long  row  of  funereal 
trappings.  Truly  was  it  said,  that  in  a  crowd  is  ever  the 
greatest  solitude !  The  mighty  pulse  of  London,  that 

"  Of  your  coming  and  departure  heeds, 
As  the  Seven  Seas  may  heed  a  pebble  cast," 

beats  on  just  the  same  though  you  are  gone.    The  vast  machine 
grinds  out  its  daily  life,  the  propellers  work,  the  wheels  of  Jugger- 


xvn  "  THE  CRUEL  LIGHTS  OF  LONDON  "  427 

naut  hum,  while,  like  a  poor  moth,  you  spin  your  little  hour  in  the 
sun,  and  then  go  under.  This  terrible  desolation  of  London 
has  resulted,  and  still  results,  in  many  a  tragedy,  bitter  as  that 
of  young  Chatterton,  the  boy  poet,  found  dead  in  a  Brooke 

Street  garret  : 

....    "  the  marvellous  boy, 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride  .   .   .  ." 

London,  the  "stony-hearted  stepmother,"  as  De  Quincey 
called  Oxford  Street — has  many  a  time  given  her  children  stones 
for  bread.  Many  are  the  men  and  women, — poets,  authors, 
journalists,  actors, — who  come  up  to  the  vast  city,  attracted  by 
"  the  deceitful  lights  of  London,"  to  starve  in  Soho  or  Blooms- 
bury  garrets  (Bloomsbury,  to  which  place,  it  is  said,  more 
MSS.  are  returned  than  to  any  other  locality  in  the  British 
Isles).  Too  proud  to  beg,  too  sensitive  to  fight,  they  soon 
become  ousted  in  the  struggle  for  life,  and  very  often  get 
pushed  altogether  out  of  the  ranks  ;  or,  if  they  do  succeed,  are 
soured  by  years  of  trial  and  suffering.  The  biographies  of 
successful  men  sometimes  tell  of  such  early  struggles ;  but  of 
the  many  who  are  not  successful,  the  submerged  ones,  you  do 
not  hear.  Some  of  the  Bloomsbury  and  Bayswater  boarding- 
houses  afford  sad  evidence  of  retrenched  fortunes  and  squalid 
lives.  The  ragged  window-blind,  the  dirty  tablecloth,  covered 
always  with  remains  of  meals  ;  the  sad,  lined,  discontented  faces 
pressed  close  to  the  dingy  panes,  the  eternal  smell  of  onions 
or  fried  fish,  the  general  wretchedness  and  frowsiness  of  every- 
thing— all  tell  tales  of  a  sadder  kind  than  those  of  Dickens's 
Mrs.  Tibbs  or  Mrs.  Todgers.  And,  descending  yet  lower  in 
the  social  scale,  individual  cases  become  yet  sadder.  I  once 
lived  in  a  London  square,  next  door  to  an  empty  house.  For 
two  days  a  battered  corpse  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 
in  the  garden,  and  no  one  knew  of  it.  It  was  only  the  poor 
caretaker  left  in  the  "  mansion  "  who,  weary  of  existence,  had 
herself  severed  the  Gordian  knot  of  life.  And,  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  another  square  of  "  desirable  residences,"  no 


428 


RAGGED  LADIES 


CHAP. 


less  than  three  murders  was  considered  the  usual  winter 
average — murders,  too,  of  the  worst  and  most  squalid  type. 
Such,  in  London,  is  the  close  juxtaposition  of  "  velvet  and 


U  u 


Doorstep  Party. 


rags,"  luxury  and  misery.  London  is  the  refuge  of  blighted 
lives,  of  the  queer  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  humanity.  Where 
can  they  all  come  from?  and  what  were  their  beginnings? 


xvn  FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  429 

Among  such  waifs  and  strays  do  I  recall  one  old  man — feeble, 
pitiful,  wizened,  who  carried  an  empty  black  bag,  and  stretched 
it  out  towards  me  appealingly.  The  contents,  if  any,  of  the 
black  bag,  I  never  discovered ;  but  I  often  gave  him  a  penny, 
simply  because  he  was  so  unutterably  pathetic.  He  is  gone  now, 
and  his  place  knows  him  no  more.  But  he  always  haunts  my 
dreams.  And  the  afflicted  girl — white-faced  and  expression- 
less— who  sat  for  many  years  close  to  the  "  Horse-Shoe "  of 
Tottenham  Court  Road  (indeed,  she  may  sit  there  still),  her 
face  calm  as  that  of  a  Caryatid,  as  though  oblivious  of  Time 
and  inured  to  suffering,  through  all  the  noise  and  tumult  of 
drovers'  carts  and  omnibuses  ;  she  has  often  seemed  to  me  as 
a  type  of  the  eternal,  dumb  sorrow  of  humanity. 

Yet  this  isolation  of  London,  terrible  as  it  is  for  the  poor 
and  suffering, — is,— for  the  well-to-do  class  at  least, — in  some 
ways  advantageous.  For  one  thing,  it  allows  more  liberty  of 
action  ; — for  another,  it  prevents  any  undue  personal  pride. 
It  is,  fortunately,  rare  indeed  for  the  individual  to  be  as 
conceited  in  London  as  he  is  in  the  provinces.  True, — 
London  has  occasional  aesthetic  crazes  and  literary  fashions ; 
but,  as  a  rule, — and  with  the  exception  of  special  cliques  and 
coteries  such  as  those  of  Chelsea  and  Hampstead, — people 
are  not  unduly  puffed  up  in  London.  The  city,  with  its 
vast  size,  acts  as  an  automatic  equaliser ; — personality  be- 
comes lost, — and  individuals  tend  to  find  their  proper  level. 
The  Londoner  is  apt  to  realise, — that,  in  the  words  of  Mr. 
Gilbert's  song, — "  he  never  would  be  missed."  Nowhere  is 
there  more  liberty ;  no  one  even  notices  you  as  you  walk 
the  streets.  A  man  used,  some  years  ago,  to  walk  about 
the  Bloomsbury  squares  with  long  hair  in  be-ribboned 
pigtails,  and  in  a  harlequin  dress ;  the  street-boys  hardly 
marked  him ;  even  a  Chinaman  in  full  costume  only  attracts 
a  following  of  a  few  nursery-maids  and  perambulators.  But 
in  London  it  really  matters  very  little  what  you  do,  or  how  you 
dress.  Dress  here  is  in  fact  immaterial,  unless  you  are  bent  on 


430  "  COLD  STEP "  CHAP. 

social  successes.  Eyes  are  not  for  ever  scanning  you  critically, 
as  they  do  in  country  villages.  And,  for  ladies  who  work  in 
slums  and  "  mean  streets," — the  safest  plan  is  always  to  wear 
dark,  shabby,  and  quiet  clothes — clothes  that  do  not  "  assert 
themselves."  Otherwise,  it  is  likely  that  she  may  be  accosted 
as  "  dear  "or  "  Sally,"— invited  to  take  "a  drop  o'  tea,"  or 
otherwise  chaffed  by  rough  women  standing  akimbo  at  street 
doors.  This  practice  of  standing  at  doors  and  gossiping  would 
appear,  indeed,  to  be  the  main  occupation  of  women  of  the 
lower  class ;  but,  poor  things  !  they  enjoy  it ;  and  their  life, 
after  all,  must  contain  but  few  enjoyments.  It  is  perhaps,  less 
certain  that  their  babies  enjoy  the  "  cold  step,"  on  which  they 
are  unceremoniously  flopped  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  An  over- 
dose of  "  cold  step "  may,  indeed,  partially  account  for  the 
bronchitis  which  riddles  the  ranks  of  the  children  of  the 
poor.  You  may  see  a  family  of  six  slum  children  playing 
happily  in  the  damp  gutter  one  week ;  the  week  following,  you 
may  find  half  of  them  dead  or  dying  from  a  visitation  of  this 
fell  plague.  To  say  that  the  children  of  London  are  deci- 
mated by  it  would  be  putting  the  case  much  too  mildly.  The 
mothers,  however,  take  a  different  view.  "  She  niver  looked 
'erself  agin  sence  that  'ere  crool  vaccination," — a  mother  will 
say  placidly, — ignoring  the  cold  step  and  the  bronchitis  that 
did  the  work.  "  Cold  step,"  indeed,  to  their  minds,  acts  as  a 
refreshing  tonic;  they  call  it  "bringin'  'im, — or  'er, — up 
'ardy." 

That  "  pity  for  a  horse  o'erdriven  "  that  often  catches  you 
by  the  throat  in  London  streets, — is  yet  almost  cast  into  the 
shade  by  the  far  sadder  lot  of  helpless  humanity.  'Bus  horses, 
at  any  rate,  are  well  fed, — to  say  nothing  of  their  being  worn 
out,  and  released  from  their  sufferings  after  an  average  period 
of  four  years  ;  besides,  you  can  always  comfort  yourself  by 
refusing  to  travel  by  'bus  (I  have  a  friend,  indeed,  who  always 
vows  that  he  will  NOT  on  any  consideration  make  one  of 
twenty-eight  people  for  two  horses  to  pull) ; — but  it  is  little  or 


xvn  BABY-FARMS  431 

nothing  you  can  do  for  the  alleviation  of  the  lot  of  the  slum 
babies.  Sad  indeed  is  the  case  of  some  of  these.  For,  in 
some  dingy  and  romantically-named  "Rose  Lane," — or  "Mari- 
gold-Avenue,"— (the  filthier  the  London  lanes, — the  more 
poetic  their  names), — baby-farms  flourish  and  spread.  Once, 
I  remember  coming  home  sick  at  heart,  from  a  visitation  of 
one  such  slummy  "  lane."  In  a  dirty  "  two-pair-back  "  I  found 
an  old  woman  of  witch-like  aspect  and  doubtful  sobriety, 
three  mangy  cats,  and  two  miserable  "farmed"  babies, —  one 
an  infant,  wretched,  scrofulous,  and  covered  with  sores, 
lying  on  a  dirty  flock  bed,  its  eyes  half-closed,  in  the  last 
stage  of  exhaustion  ; — the  other  a  girl  of  two,  wasted  and 
cadaverous,  sitting  on  the  usual  "  cold  step,"  and  gazing 
with  pathetic  and  suffering  eyes  over  to  the  cabbage-laden  and 
redolent  gutter  that,  filthier  far  than  any  in  Italian  town  or 
foreign  Ghetto,  apparently  did  duty,  in  the  middle  of  the 
paved  alley,  as  a  common  dustbin.  (Truly,  it  well  becomes 
us  to  decry, — in  this  matter  of  cleanliness, — our  neighbours  of 
Central  Europe  !)  I  went  away  sadly ;  yet  what  could  I  have 
done  ?  I  could  not  take  the  poor  neglected  babies  home ; 
even  though  they  probably  belonged  to  girls  who  were  not  too 
regular  in  paying  for  their  weekly  maintenance.  Nothing  short 
of  bringing  in  the  Law  would  have  been  of  any  use,  and  I 
was  not  sure  enough  of  my  facts  to  do  this.  Yet  that  elder 
child's  pathetic  and  mournfully-patient  eyes  still  afflict  my 
memory. 

Poor,  little,  neglected  slum  children !  Miss  Dorothy 
Tennant  (Lady  Stanley),  has  by  her  unique  art  surrounded 
these  waifs  with  all  that  glamour  of  poetry  and  sentiment  that 
had,  by  a  foolish  custom,  been  hitherto  exclusively  reserved 
for  the  children  of  the  rich.  Even  Du  Maurier  always  made 
his  slum  children  ugly  and  repulsive.  Nature,  however,  knows 
no  such  differences.  And,  —  apart  from  Miss  Dorothy 
Tennant's  charming  ragamuffins, — who  has  not  stopped  to 
admire,  in  some  back  street,  the  graceful  dancing  of  some  half- 


432  STREET  GAMES  CHAP. 

dozen  of  small  ragged  girls  ?  girls  in  shocking  shoes, — but  who, 
nevertheless,  hop  so  delightfully,  and  with  such  sense  of  time 
and  rhythm,  to  the  wheezy  old  organ,  the  wheeziest  of  its 
tribe,  that  they  have  inveigled  into  their  custom.  Indeed,  I 
have  sometimes  doubted  whether  the  organ-man  does  not  him- 
self engage  the  small  girls  to  dance,  as  a  catch-penny  ruse. 
They  do  difficult,  intricate,  ever-changing  steps  : 

"  advance,  evade, 
Unite,  dispart,  and  dally, 
Re-set,  coquet,  and  gallopade," 

as  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  hath  it. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  only  in  hospital  wards  that  the  children  of 
the  great  city  are  pathetic.  I  have  been  moved  (like 
Mrs.  Meagles),  almost  to  tears,  at  the  sight  of  a  big  Ragged 
School  of  small  boys  marching,  ten  abreast,  in  perfect  drill,  in 
a  large  phalanx,  numbering  about  five  hundred.  Five  hundred 
unwanted  little  human  souls  !  each  child,  of  infant  years,  with 
no  mother  to  love  it ;  more  destitute  in  a  way  than  even  the 
slum  baby,  regarded  as  a  cipher  merely ;  it  is  surely  a  sight 
pitiful  enough  to  make  the  angels  weep  ! 

All  the  street  child's  usual  stock  in-trade,  in  the  way  of  toys, 
is  chalk  (for  drawing  those  incessant  white  squares  on  the 
pavement),  perhaps  a  few  worn  marbles,  and  a  selection  of  old 
buttons.  The  chalked  squares,  of  course,  refer  to  the  ancient 
game  of  "  hop  scotch,"  so  called  because  the  player  in  trying  to 
get  a  stone  into  a  square,  may  only  "  hop "  over  the  lines 
which  are  "  scotched "  or  "  traced  "  on  the  ground.  The 
London  children  often  use,  instead  of  stones,  broken  bits  of 
glass  or  crockery  they  call  "  chaneys  " ;  and  to  own  a  private 
"  chaney  "  is  considered,  I  believe,  highly  genteel.  The 
familiar  game  of  "  Tip-cat,"  and  the  skipping  rope,  have  rival 
attractions ;  and  great  enjoyment  may  be  derived  from  a  primitive 
swing — a  bit  of  rope  deftly  fixed  between  area  rails  or  on  lamp- 
posts. The  pavement  is  the  London  child's  playground,  lor, 


THE  SPREAD  OF  LEARNING 


433 


though  in  some  quarters  a  movement  has,  I  believe,  been- 
started  for  opening  some  few  of  the  select  "  squares  "  to  poor 
children  at  certain  days  and  hours,  it  would  not  appear  to  have 
done  much  as  yet.  The  pavement  games  and  the  Board  Schools 
together  often  produce  a  quite  wonderful  arithmetical  sharpness  : 
"  The  idea  of  Em'ly  gittin'  a  prize,"  I  heard  a  ragged  girl  of 
tender  years  remark  contemptuously  to  her  equally  ragged 
companion,  " Ently  !  why,  the  girl's  a  perfect  fool;  past  ten 
year  owld,  and  can't  move  the  decimal  point ! "  Like  other 
children,  these  little  pariahs  of  the  street  have  their  "  make- 


Hop-scotch. 

believe "  games ;  for  instance,  I  have  seen  them  look  long- 
ingly into  toy-shop  windows,  and  heard  them  talk  to  each 
other  of  every  article  there,  as  though  it  were  their  own 
peculiar  property;  I  have  also  overheard  them,  sitting  on  a 
West-End  doorstep,  appropriate  the  mansion  thus  :  "  Ain't  this 
'ere  a  fine  'ouse,  M'ria  ?  didn't  know  as  yer  ma  was  sich  a  toff. 
When  are  y'going  to  arst  me  in  to  tea  ?  "  &c.,  &c.  What  matter 
if  they  pepper  their  speech  continually  with  such  cockneyisms 
as  "  not  me,"  "  chawnce  it,"  "  you  ain't  no  class  "  ;  they  are 
generally  sweet  English  children  all  the  same,  and  immeasur- 

F  F 


434  "OUR  STREET"  CHAP. 

ably  superior  to  their  surroundings.     And  such  surroundings  as 
they  are ! 

"  Our  street "  (as  a  little  Board  School  boy  described  his  home  in  an 
essay),  "  is  a  long  lane  betwixt  two  big  streets.  Our  street  is  not  so  clean 
as  the  big  streets,  coz  yer  mothers  throws  the  slops  and  things  in  the 
gutter,  and  chucks  bits  of  Lloyds  and  cabbige  leaves  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  That's  why  there's  allus  a  funny  smell  down  our  street,  speshally 
when  it's  hot." 

Another  such  essay  thus  describes  a  London  "  Bank 
Holiday": 

"They  call  this  happy  day  Bank  Holiday,  becose  the  banks  shut  up 
shop,  so  as  people  can't  put  their  money  in,  but  has  to  spend  it.  People 
begin  talking  about  Bank  Holiday  a  long  time  afore  it  comes,  but  they 
don't  begin  to  spree  about  much  till  the  night  afore  ....  Bank  Holidays 
are  the  happiest  days  of  your  life,  becose  you  can  do  nearly  what  you  like,  and 
the  perlice  don't  take  no  notice  of  you  ....  There's  only  one  thing  as 
spoils  Bank  Holiday,  and  that  is  not  being  fine  and  hot.  When  it's  wet 
all  the  gentlemen  get  savige  and  fight  one  another,  and  pull  their  sweetarts 
and  missises  about.  I'm  very  sorry  for  them  all  round,  becose  it  is  a  shame 
for  to  see.  But  when  it's  fine  and  hot,  the  gentlemen  all  larf  and  are  kind, 
and  the  women  dance  about  and  drink  beer  like  the  gentlemen.  Every- 
body's right,  and  boys  don't  get  skittled  round." 

But,  of  course,  the  Board  Schools  have  done,  and  are  doing, 
much  to  improve  the  rising  generation.  It  is  no  small  tribute 
to  them  that  into  whatever  slum  or  rough  district  you  elect  to 
go,  you  are  safe  if  you  surround  yourself  with  a  bodyguard  of 
street  children.  And  for  the  matter  of  that,  even  that  pariah 
of  the  schools,  the  London  street  arab,  is  with  his  "  pluck  " 
and  general  resourcefulness,  distinctly  attractive.  Have  not 
Dickens  and  other  novelists  adopted  him  as  their  hero  ?  All 
honour  to  him  if  he  outgrow  his  base  surroundings ;  small 
wonder  if  he  is  like  poor  Tip,  "  of  the  prison  prisonous  and  of 
the  streets  streety."  Quickwitted,  idle,  and  hardened  to  priva- 
tion, he  may,  when  he  grows  up,  turn  to  honest  work,  or  he 
may  sink  into  a  "  loafer," — one  of  those  mysterious  beings  who 


BANK  HOLIDAY 


435 


arise,  as  out  of  thin  air,  from  the  empty  street  whenever  a  four- 
wheel  cab,  with  its  burden  of  boxes,  arrives  at  its  destination. 


Tlie    Return,  Bank  Holiday. 


The  conversation  of  the  London  working  man  hardly,  per- 
haps, shows  him  at  his  best.     The  familiar  but  very  unpleasant 


F    F    2 


436  THE  DERIVATION  OF  "COCKNEY"  CHAP. 

adjective  that  invariably  greets  your  ears  as  you  walk  behind 
him,  is  in  the  main  its  distinguishing  element,  and,  notwith- 
standing its  more  or  less  classical  derivation  (from  "by'r 
Lady"),  it  is  somewhat  too  suggestive  for  squeamish  ears. 
Besides,  from  the  frequency  of  its  use,  it  would  appear  to 
mean  nothing  at  all,  but  simply  to  be  a  foolish  habit  that  can- 
not even  plead  the  excuse  of  Cockneyism. 

What,  by-the-way,  is  the  derivation  of  the  term  "  Cockney  "  ? 
Its  beginnings,  as  usual  in  etymological  questions,  are  abstruse ; 
for  instance,  the  word  began  by  meaning  a  "a  cockered 
child  "  ;  then  it  was  synonymous  for  "  a  milksop,"  "  an  effemin- 
ate fellow";  then,  (i6th  cent.),  "a  derisive  appellation  for  a 
townsman  as  the  type  of  effeminacy,  in  contrast  to  the  hardier 
inhabitants  of  the  country."  Then  it  became  "  one  born  in  the 
city  of  London,  within  sound  of  Bow  Bells  "  ;  a  Bow-Bell  Cock- 
ney being  always  a  term  "  more  or  less  contemptuous  or  banter- 
ing, and  particularly  used  to  connote  the  characteristics  in 
which  the  born  Londoner  is  supposed  to  be  inferior  to  other 
Englishmen." 

According,  however,  to  an  old  writer,  the  term  "  cockney"  arose  thus  : 
"A  Cittizen's  sonne  riding  with  his  father  into  the  Country,  asked  when  he 
heard  a  horse  neigh,  what  the  horse  did  ;  his  father  answered,  the  horse 
doth  neigh  ;  riding  further  he  heard  a  cocke  crow,  and  said,  doth  the  cocke 
neigh  too  ?  and  therefore  Cockney  or  Cocknie,  by  inversion  thus  :  incock,  q. 
incoctuS)  i.,  raw  or  unripe  in  Country-man's  affaires." 

Some  Cockneyisms  are  frankly  puzzling,  some  are  actually 
startling.  Factory  girls  are  specially  prodigal  of  them.  Now, 
the  average  factory  girl  is  often  rather  a  rough  diamond,  but 
there  is  really  no  harm  in  her  when  once  you  get  used  to  her 
ways.  She  has,  it  is  true,  an  embarrassing  habit  of  shouting 
into  the  ear  of  the  inoffensive  passer-by ;  she  may  even  (if 
she  happen,  as  frequently  occurs,  to  be  walking  with  two 
others,  three  abreast)  try  to  push  you  into  the  gutter ;  but 
this  is  simply  her  fresh  exuberance  of  spirits ;  she  means  no 
ill  by  it.  And  her  frank  utterances  are  not  always  rudely 


xvii  FACTORY  GIRLS  AND  COSTERMONGERS  437 

meant.  For  instance,  the  Cockney  remark,  "You  are  a  fine 
old  corf-drop,  you  are  ! "  may  even  leave  the  person  addressed 
in  some  bewilderment  as  to  whether  it  be  a  compliment  or  an 
insult.  It  means,  however,  merely,  that  you  are  an  "  innocent," 
an  ignoramus,  a  tyro  in  the  ways  of  the  world.  "  'Ere's  a  fine 
fourpenny  lot ! "  or  "  Where  did  you  get  that  'at  ?  "  seem,  on 
the  other  hand,  to  sound  a  more  distinctly  aggressive  note. 
Next  to  factory-girls  and  flower-girls,  costermongers  talk, 
perhaps,  the  raciest  "cockney."  I  once  knew  an  old  flower- 
man  with  a  wonderful  gift  of  the  gab,  who  was  always 
persuading  me  to  sell  him  my  husband's  old  boots,  or  "  a'  old 
skirt  for  the  missus  "  for  some  pot  of  depressed-looking  fern. 
"  Did  y'  ever  see  sich  fine  plants  ?  "  he  will  cry  admiringly  of 
his  barrow-full ;  "all  growed  up  in  cold  air,  I  don't  tell  you  no 
story.  Wy,  a  gent  larst  year  as  kep'  a  mews,  'e  bought  a  box 
'o  stershuns  orf  o'  me,  an'  this  year  'e  come  back  an'  said  as  'e 
didn't  wawnt  no  more  o'  that  sort,  cos  wy  ?  they  blowed  too 
well,  they  did,  and  made  'is  winders  look  that  toffy,  as  'is 
landlord  see  'em,  and  'is  rent  wus  riz  on  'im.  Now,  this  'ere 
cherry-pie,  you  niver  see  sich  bewties  ;  got  real  stalks  an'  roots, 
they  'ave ;  been  kep'  warm  under  the  children's  bed,  down 
our  court;  102,  Little  Red  Fox  Yard;  kep'  in  they  wuz, 
cos  of  the  rain ;  and  blimy  if  they  don't  look  all  the  better 
for  it ! " 

The  flower-girls  have  perhaps  less  voluble  "patter,"  but 
their  cry,  "  Fine  Market  Bunch  !  "  "  'Ere  y'are  ! "  is  no  less 
patiently  reiterated.  The  London  flower-girl,  good-looking  as 
she  often  is,  is  yet,  perhaps,  hardly  an  ideal  embodiment  of 
the  goddess  Flora.  To  begin  with,  she  is  generally  enveloped 
in  a  thick,  rough,  unromantic,  fringed  shawl,  and  wears  an 
enormous  black  hat  with  a  still  more  enormous  feather,  the 
latter  in  sad  need  of  curling.  Her  abundant  hair  is  coiled 
loosely  on  to  the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  hangs,  in  a  thick  black 
fringe,  over  her  eyes  and  ears  ;  anything  more  totally  unlike  the 
dainty,  slim,  Venetian  flower-girl  can  hardly  be  imagined. 


438 


FLOWER-SELLERS 


CHAP. 


Some  kind  ladies  did,  indeed,  get  up  a  benevolent  scheme 
for  providing  London  flower-sellers  with  neat  dresses,  bonnets, 
and  hats ;  two  or  three  women,  garbed  in  this  costume,  may 


Flower  Girls. 


still  occasionally  be  seen  at  London's  principal  flower-mart, 
Oxford  Circus.  But  Londoners  are  a  conservative  race,  and  it 
is,  I  imagine,  doubtful  if  the  recipients  themselves  much 
appreciate  these  gifts. 


xvii  ORGAN-GRINDERS  439 

The  organ-grinders  who  delight  so  many  humble  folk,  and 
enrage  and  afflict  so  many  of  the  richer  class,  mostly  hail  from 
Hatton  Garden  and  its  immediate  neighbourhood.  The  street 
organ, — "  piano-organ  "  as  its  proud  possessor  generally  terms  it, 
— is  usually  the  sole  support  of  the  family.  The  organ-grinders 
are,  as  a  rule,  Italian;  and  are  generally  to  be  seen  in  their 
picturesque  native  costume.  The  organ,  however,  requires,  to 
catch  many  pennies,  one,  at  least,  of  two  useful  adjuncts  ;  viz.,  a 
baby  in  a  cradle,  or  a  dressed-up  monkey.  The  baby  sleeps 
peacefully  through  the  noisiest  tunes  (what  nerves  of  iron  that 
child  must  possess  ! ),  the  monkey  dances  and  postures,  even 
climbing  up  the  area  railings.  Even  in  places  where  the 
organ-man  is  cursed,  he  often  reaps  a  rich  harvest  of  pennies, 
paid  him  to  go  away.  Each  organ  has  its  special  "  pitches," 
its  settled  rounds.  Thus,  coming  early  from  Hatton  Garden, 
they  will  frequent  Bloomsbury,  say  at  9  A.M.,  and  work  slowly 
towards  the  West  End  and  back,  to  give  the  boarding  houses 
in  Bedford  Place  yet  another  serenade  by  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun.  When  once  started,  the  organ-man  is  pitiless  in 
giving  you  his  whole  repertoire.  Poor  John  Leech  !  it  is  said 
that  they  helped  to  aggravate  the  lingering  illness  of  which  he 
died.  But  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  they  lighten  the  drab, 
unlovely  lives  of  the  London  poor. 

"  Children,  when  they  see  thy  supple 
Form  approach,  are  out  like  shots ; 
Half-a-bar  sets  several  couple 
Waltzing  in  convenient  spots. 

"  Not  with  clumsy  Jacks  or  Georges  ; 
Unprofaned  by  grasp  of  man 
Maidens  speed  those  simple  orgies 
Betsey  Jane  with  Betsey  Ann." 

German  bands  at  street  corners, — drum-and-fife  bands  or- 
ganised by  local  talent, — all  help,  at  nightfall,  to  swell  the  vast 
volume  of  the  noise  of  London. 

There   is    one  day  in  the  week,  however,  when  silence— a 


440  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON 

silence  that  can  almost  be  oppressive  —hangs  over  the  entire 
city,  and  not  even  the  sound  of  the  organ-grinder  varies  the 
dulness  of  the  monotonous  streets.  This  is  Sunday,  a  day 
which  strikes  terror  to  the  heart  of  the  uninitiated  foreigner. 
M.  Gabriel  Mourey  thus  feelingly  describes  it : 

"That  English  Sunday,  which  so  exasperates  the  French,  gives  them, 
from  mere  recollection,  an  attack  of  the  spleen,  a  fit  of  yawning  .... 
Yet  to  me  there  is  something  comforting  about  it.  It  is  really  a  day  of  rest, 
of  compulsory  rest,  of  rest  against  one's  will ;  a  day  when  it  is  simply 
impossible  to  do  otherwise  than  rest ;  it  is  an  obligatory  imprisonment 
which  at  first  revolts  the  prisoner,  but  which,  if  he  control  his  feelings,  he 
will,  at  the  end  of  an  hour  or  so,  find  not  without  its  charm.  To  know 
for  certain  that  no  whim,  no  fancy  for  outside  amusement  can  distract  you, 
no  theatrical  temptation,  no  yearning  for  active  life  can  assail  you,  to  be 
assured  that  you  are  protected  from  the  Unforeseen,  be  it  happy  or  sad, 
from  a  letter  even — that,  in  short,  it  is  for  the  moment  impossible  to  do 
anything  useful, — all  this  gives  you  a  tranquil  security,  a  serene  and 
healthful  calm  of  twenty-four  hours,  a  calm  of  which  we  in  France,- and 
especially  of  Paris,  do  not  know  the  boon  ....  And  if,  in  the  evening, 
you  venture  on  to  the  deserted  streets,  you  can  pass  freely  on  your  way  ; 
no  one  will  interrupt  your  walk  ;  it  is  like  a  dead  city  ;  all  trace  of  the  life 
and  activity  of  the  six  past  days  has  vanished. " 

And  here  is  another,  and  a  still  more  depressing  picture, 
from  the  same  author  : 

"  In  this  immense  and  respectable  cemetery  into  which  London  is 
metamorphosed  on  Sundays,  some  characteristic  and  amusing  beggars 
patrol  the  streets.  Two  old  people,  a  man  and  his  wife,  stop  at  a  street 
corner.  The  man  takes  a  wretched  violin  out  of  an  old  black  cloth  bag. 
The  woman  sings.  What  a  voice  !  a  hungry  voice  of  chilly  misery,  which 
issues,  bitter  and  shrill,  from  her  toothless  mouth.  Though  the  weather  is 
warm,  she  seems  to  shiver  beneath  her  ragged  shawl.  The  violin  grates 
on  obstinately.  The  man  is  tall,  with  a  kind  of  remains  of  grandeur  in 
his  torn  coat-tails,  and  in  his  face,  still  haughty,  though  greasy  and  bloated. 
Some  passers-by  have  stopped,  and  some  pence  have  dropped  into  the  old 
woman's  dirty,  wasted  hand.  The  man,  still  drawing  his  violin  bow,  looks 
round,  satisfied,  on  the  treasure  ....  Six  o'clock  strikes  from  a  steeple 
near ;  they  suddenly  desist,  she  from  her  singing,  he  from  the  scraping  of 
his  miserable  instrument,  and  they  go  off  to  swell  the  little  crowd  which 


xvn  THE  CASUAL  WARD  441 

awaits,  at  the  public-house  doors,  the  sixth  stroke  of  six, — the  re-opening  of 
the  house  where  drunkenness,  the  cure  of  hunger- pain,  is  to  be  cheaply 
bought." 

Such  tragedies,  such  pitiful  sights,  wring  the  heart  every  day, 
"whene'er  I  take  my  walks  abroad  "  in  the  streets  of  London. 
"  How  the  poor  live,"  indeed  !  Some  of  the  London  waifs 
would  find  it  hard  to  tell  you  how  they  do  live !  The  day 
often  divided  between  the  street  and  the  public-house;  the 
night,  perhaps,  spent  in  the  shelter  of  the  "  fourpenny  doss  "  ; 
and  withal,  a  delightful  uncertainty  about  the  possibilities  of 
dinner  and  breakfast.  Selling  penny  toys  in  the  street  in  the 
winter  months  must  be  chilly  work  ;  and  even  in  the  hot  days 
of  August,  when  the  pavements  blister  in  the  sun,  and  American 
and  German  tourists  throng  the  streets  with  their  Baedekers, 
it  must  have  its  drawbacks.  As  to  the  "  fourpenny  doss,"  its 
discomforts  are  probably  mainly  owing  to  its  inmates.  The 
common  lodging-houses  are  often  comparatively  clean,  with  a 
big,  central,  well-warmed  kitchen,  presided  over  by  a  "  deputy." 
But,  of  course,  where  many  individuals  are  herded  together  in 
big  dormitories,  pickpockets  will  abound  ;  pickpockets,  too, 
abandoned  enough  to  thieve  even  from  other  human  wastrels. 
The  shelter  of  the  "  casual  ward  "  is  ever  held  to  be  the  last 
resource.  A  charwoman  whom  I  once  knew,  a  witty  and 
charming  lady, — talented,  too,  in  her  metier,  but  alas  !  I  fear,  of 
the  "  Jane  Cakebread  "  type, — often  complained  to  me  of  the 
horrors  she  had  endured  there.  "  It's  downright  crool,"  she 
would  say  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "the  way  them  nurses  treats 
yer.  Fust,  you  'as  to  be  washed ;  an'  washed  you  must  be  ; 
there's  no  gittin'  away  from  it.  An'  your  'ed,  too  !  It's  '  Dip 
your  'ed  in,'  and  dip  it  you  must,  will  or  no.  An'  with  so  much 
dippin'  my  'earin's  fair  gorn."  As  for  the  compulsory  oakum 
picking,  the  lady  minded  it  not  at  all.  "  I  didn't  never  tike 
much  count  on  it,"  she  said ;  "  but  there,  my  'ands  is  'ardened 
like." 

One  word  of  warning  to  the  wise.     Do  not,  in  the  mistaken 


442  LOST  CHILDREN  CHAP. 

kindness  of  your  heart,  take  (as  Mrs.  Carlyle  did  to  her  subse- 
quent repentance)  to  your  own  home,  children  that  appear  to 
be  "  lost "  ;  or  at  least  only  do  so  under  very  exceptional  cir- 
cumstances. When  children  tell  you  that  they  are  lost,  they 
are  usually  only  frightened.  "  Bless  your  'art,"  a  kindly  police- 
man once  said  to  me,  "  they'll  find  their  way  'ome  safe  enough, 
if  you  only  leave  'em  where  they  are."  Even  if  really  lost,  the 
best  place  for  the  stray  child  is,  after  all,  the  police  station, 
"  and "  (to  quote  a  Mrs.  Gamp-like  member  of  the  force), 
"  well  they  knows  it,  the  little  dears — well  they  knows  as  the 
orficer  is  always  their  best  friend."  If  you  do  take  the  child 
home,  it  will  prove — as  it  did  to  Mrs.  Carlyle — as  great  a 
riddle  as  the  Sphinx.  Once  I  did  this.  I  took  a  lost  infant 
home,  indulged  it  in  nuts,  oranges,  buns,  and  picture  books ; 
yet  still  the  wretched  child  howled,  refusing,  like  Rachel,  to  be 
comforted ;  and  I  found  out  to  my  cost  that  I  had  better  have 
left  it  alone.  (Perhaps  the  too  unaccustomed  neatness  of  'my 
room  distressed  it,  or  the  absence  of  the  friendly  and  familiar 
"  washing.")  But  once  again  was  I  strongly  tempted  to  play 
the  good  Samaritan.  Returning  home  on  a  winter's  day,  I 
met,  in  a  "mean  street,"  two  children — boy  and  girl,  of  seven 
and  eight  years — crying  bitterly.  I  interrogated  them  as  to 
the  cause  of  their  tears  : 

"  Our  school's  burnt  down,"  the  boy  said  betwixt  his  sobs, 
"  and  we  can't  get  in  there  to-day." 

A  compulsory  holiday  seemed  a  feeble  reason  for  howls. 
"  Why  don't  you  go  home  and  say  so  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  'Cause — mother — she  w — w — won't  believe  us,"  the  youth 
sobbed.  "  She  said  as  she'd  rive  our  livers  out,  if  we  ever 
humbugged  her  any  more,  an'  stopped  away  from  school  —  and 
—  and—  ifs  really  burnt  down  this  time  !  " 

Terrible  Nemesis,  indeed,  and  worthy  of  Miss  Jane  Taylor's 
well-known  "moral  poem," — this  unforeseen  result  of  "giving 
Mamma  false  alarms  !  " 

Burglars  in  London  are  not  uncommon  ;  they  seem  to  know, 


xvii  LONDON  SWINDLES  443 

by  mere  predatory  instinct,  the  houses  where  valuables  and 
silver  abound.  It  is  best  to  treat  them,  when  found,  gently 
but  firmly.  But  if  we  feel  that  we  cannot  all  attain  to  the 
courage  of  the  Gower  Street  matron  who  held  the  thief  by  the 
collar  till  the  police  came,  then  we  can  at  least  lock  up  safely 
and  retire  to  rest,  resolute  to  ignore  all  suspicious  sounds 
within  the  house.  Casual  morning  visitors  give,  on  the  whole, 
more  trouble  to  the  London  householder.  Old  ladies,  for 
instance,  in  black  silk  that  has  seen  better  days,  who  are 
kindly  willing  to  sell  to  you,  for  the  nominal  sum  of  one  and- 
six,  an  ancient  recipe  for  furniture  polish,  or  smart  and  glib 
young  men  who  call  as  though  they  were  old  college  friends, 
and  who,  only  after  some  half-hour's  discussion  of  the  state  of 
Europe  or  the  weather,  divulge  to  you  the  fact  that  they  came 
as  agents  for  a  tea  firm.  Then  there  are  the.  itinerant  vendors 
of  tortoises,  with  barrow-loads  of  the  poor  distressed  creatures. 
"  Wonnerful  things  for  beadles,  'm  !  eat  a  beadle  as  soon  as  look 
at  'im  "—a  thing  they  seldom,  if  ever,  do.  And,  on  one  memor- 
able occasion,  a  whole  hour  of  my  precious  morning  was  taken 
up  by  an  elderly  female  who  represented  herself,  I  know  not 
on  what  grounds,  as  "a  relative  and  scion  of  the  late  Sir 
Humphry  Davy  " !  (I  am  glad,  on  the  scion's  behalf,  to  be 
able  to  add  that  she  did  not  also  appropriate  the  tea-spoons  !) 

Yet  another  factor  in  city  life  calls  for  remark.  This  is  the 
newsboy  of  London,  a  personality  into  which  the  street  arab 
not  infrequently  develops.  He  is  a  curious  being,  gifted  with 
nine  lives ;  I  should  describe  him  as  "a  survival  of  the 
fittest."  His  raucous,  indescribably  husky  voice  may  be  heard 
at  every  street  corner,  crying  either  "  Win-tier"  or  "  Extra 
Spee-shul."  Of  late,  the  newsboys  have,  however,  battened  on 
war.  "  Death  o'  Kroojer,"  one  of  them  was  bawling  one  day, 
before  the  ex-President's  oblivion.  "Why  are  you  shouting 
what's  not  true  ?  "  I  inquired  kindly  of  the  youthful  delinquent, 
"you've  got  plenty  of  fighting."  "Shut  up,  you,"  the  urchin 
retorted,  no  whit  abashed,  "  battles  is  played  out  ! "  I  once 


444  "  THE  SPLEEN "  CHAP. 

asked  a  newsboy,  just  as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  what  piece 
of  news  he  had  found  paid  him  best.  "  Wy,  resignation  o' 
Mr.  Gladstone,"  was  the  prompt  reply,  "  I  got  meself  a  new 
pair  o'  boots  outer  that."  The  familiar  and  oft  reiterated 
cry,  "  'Orrible  Murder  !  "  has,  especially  since  "  Jack  the 
Ripper  "  days,  been  sacred  to  the  calm  of  Sunday  evenings, 
when  men  of  the  roughest  class  take  the  place  of  boys,  and 
generally  cry  bogus  news.  It  is  a  curious  fact,  which  says 
much  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature,  that  the  householder 
can  rarely  resist  the  temptation  of  buying  a  Sunday  evening 
paper,  even  though  he  knows  well,  from  bitter  experience,  that 
the  news  cried  is  almost  invariably  false. 

The  curious  indifference  to  other  people's  affairs  that,  as 
already  mentioned,  characterises  the  Londoner, — shows  itself 
also  in  a  certain  want  of  public  spirit.  There  is,  naturally,  very 
little  of  the  proud,  local,  personal  feeling  that  the  villager  and 
the  small  townsman  so  often  feels.  The  Londoner,  on  the 
contrary,  is  usually  self-centred,  unsociable,  phlegmatic,  nar- 
row. This  pleasing  quality  foreigners  politely  excuse  in  him 
by  calling  it  "  the  spleen,"  and  account  it,  indeed,  a  kind  of 
result  of  the  London  fog  on  character.  The  fog,  or  "  London 
particular,"  as  that  incorrigible  cockney,  Sam  Weller,  called 
it,  is  thus  described  by  a  trenchant  French  satirist,  Max 
O'Rell  : 

' '  The  London  fog,  of  universal  reputation,  is  of  two  kinds.  The  most 
curious,  and  at  the  same  time  the  less  dangerous,  is  the  black  species.  It 
is  simply  darkness  complete  and  intense  at  mid-day.  The  gas  is  immedi- 
ately lighted  everywhere,  and  when  this  kind  of  fog  remains  in  the  upper 
atmospheric  regions,  it  does  not  greatly  affect  you.  It  does  not  touch  the 
earth,  and  the  gas  being  lighted,  it  gives  you  the  impression  of  being  in 
the  street  at  ten  o'clock  at  night.  Traffic  is  not  stopped  ;  the  bustle  of  the 
city  goes  on  as  usual.  The  most  terrible  of  all  is  the  yellow  fog,  that 
the  English  call  pea-soup.  This  one  gets  down  your  throat  and  seems  to 
choke  you.  You  have  to  cover  your  mouth  with  a  respirator,  if  you  do 
not  wish  to  be  choked  or  seized  with  an  attack  of  blood-spitting.  The 
gas  is  useless,  you  cannot  see  it  even  when  you  are  close  to  the  lamp. 


xvn  "LONDON  PARTICULARS"  445 

Traffic  is  stopped.  Sometimes  for  several  hours  the  town  seems  dead  and 
buried  ....  When  the  sun  makes  his  appearance  he  is  photographed, 
that  folks  may  not  forget  what  he  is  like." 

Another  Frenchman,  M.  Gabriel  Mourey,  describes  the  fog 
more  picturesquely  : 

"  The  frenzied,  unbridled  activity  of  the  City  "  (he  says)  "  loses  half  its 
brutality  under  the  mantle  of  fog.  Everything  seems  to  be  checked,  to 
slacken  into  a  phantom-like  motion  that  has  all  the  vagueness  of  hallucina- 
tion. The  sounds  of  the  street  are  muffled  ;  the  tops  of  the  houses  are 
lost,  hardly  even  guessed  ;  the  lower  and  first  floors  are,  apparently,  all  that 
exist  :  behind  the  shop-fronts,  a  light  vapour  floats,  giving  to  the  goods 
exposed  for  sale  something  of  age  and  disuse.  Everything  shares,  in  a 
fashion,  in  the  solidity  and  heaviness  of  the  atmosphere.  The  openings  of 
the  streets  swallow  up,  like  tunnels,  a  crowd  of  foot-passengers  and  car- 
riages, which  seem,  thus,  to  disappear  for  ever.  The  trains  that  cross 
Ludgate  Hill  wander  off  into  emptiness  on  a  cloud.  St.  Paul's  resembles 
some  monumental  mass  of  primitive  times,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  human 
ant-heap  swarms,  ridiculous  in  size,  of  a  mean  and  pitiable  activity. 
Nevertheless,  they  are  innumerable,  a  compact  army,  these  miserable  little 
human  creatures  ;  the  struggle  for  life  animates  them  ;  they  are  all  of  one 
uniform  blackness  in  the  fog  ;  they  go  to  their  daily  task,  they  all  use  the 
same  gestures,  and  every  step  that  they  take  brings  them  nearer  to  death. 
How  many  millions  of  men  for  centuries  have  followed  the  same  road  ? 
and  how  many  millions  will  follow  it  in  the  future,  when  these  of  to-day 
shall  have  finished  their  course  ?  But  the  clouds  settle  down ;  they  rain 
themselves  on  to  the  ground  in  black  masses  ;  the  sky  descends  among  men, 
and  covers  them  as  with  an  immense  funereal  pall." 

Londoners  are  always  very  quick  to  "  catch  on "  with  the 
latest  "  craze  " ;  they  tire  of  it,  however,  also  with  proportionate 
rapidity.  Thus,  the  hero  of  May  is  often  forgotten  by  Novem- 
ber, even  if  he  have  not  already  become  a  villain  by  that  time. 
Therefore,  with  Londoners,  it  is  best  to  take  the  ball  on  the 
hop,  and  gather  roses,  so  to  speak,  while  you  may.  A  catch- word 
is  in  every  one's  mouth  one  winter  ;  it  is  quite  forgotten  by  next 
summer.  Even  a  wildly  popular  new  novel  has  only  a  "  quick 
sale  "  of  a  few  short  weeks  ;  and  may  then  be  altogether  ousted 
in  favour  of  a  newer  aspirant.  The  great  city  is  notoriously 
fickle  and  wayward  in  her  favours. 


446  A  RUSTIC  VIEW  CH.  xvn 

Mr.  Charles  Booth,  and  his  fellow-workers,  have,  with  infinite 
labour  and  trouble,  sifted  and  sorted  the  population  of  London 
into  varying  classes  of  wealth  and  poverty,  of  toil,  crime,  and 
leisure.  The  results  of  this  work,  which  have  reduced  the 
heterogeneous  elements  of  London  population  to  order  as 
with  a  fairy's  wand,  are  very  interesting  as  well  as  instructive. 
The  results  are  hardly  encouraging  to  would-be  immigrants 
from  the  country ;  and  it  is,  perhaps,  fortunate  that  there  are 
still  some  rustics  who  hold  the  great  metropolis  in  horror,  and 
would  not  on  any  account  venture  near  it.  This  I  can  endorse 
from  personal  experience.  For,  only  last  year,  I  happened  to 
express  to  a  well-educated,  intelligent,  small  farmer  of  some 
forty  years  of  age,  my  'surprise  that  he  had  never  yet  thought 
well  to  make  the  short  three  hours'  journey  from  his  native 
town  to  London.  He  seemed,  however,  quite  contented  with 
his  ignorance.  "  No,"  he  remarked,  in  answer  to  my  wondering 
question,  "  I  ain't  never  bin  there,  nor  yet  'as  the  missus ;  and, 
from  all  I  'ear,  we're  best  away  from  sich  places." 


The  Men  in  Blue. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    STONES    OF    LONDON 

"  Let  others  chaunt  a  country  praise, 
Fair  river  walks  and  meadow  ways  ; 
Dearer  to  me  my  sounding  days 

In  London  town  : 
To  me  the  tumult  of  the  street 
Is  no  less  music,  than  the  sweet 
Surge  of  the  wind  among  the  wheat, 

By  dale  or  down." — Lionel  Johnson. 

"  I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials,  and  the  things  of  fame, 
That  do  renown  this  city." — Shakespeare. 

WHAT  book  has  ever  been  written,  nay,  has  ever  attempted 
to  be  written,  about  the  general  architecture  of  London?  The 
largest  city  in  the  world, — the  metropolis  of  many  cities  in  one 
city, — the  aggregate  of  a  hundred  towns,  each  as  big  as  Oxford, 
as  Cambridge,  as  Winchester,— why  should  its  stones  be  thus 


448  "UGLY  LONDON"  CHAP. 

neglected  ?  And,  except  for  a  sprinkling  of  traditional  gibes, 
an  annual  dole  of  scornful  references,  what  attention  does  the 
architecture  of  London  receive  from  its  inhabitants  ?  or,  indeed, 
from  outsiders  ?  Every  one,  on  the  contrary,  considers,  himself 
at  liberty  to  fling  a  stone  at  it.  Such  titles  as  "  Ugly  London," 
"  The  Uglification  of  London,"  are  "  stock  "  leaders  for  para- 
graphs in  daily  papers.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  nothing 
new  can  be  raised  in  the  city  without  drawing  upon  itself  the 
scathing  remarks  and  innuendoes  of  a  too-critical,  and  generally 
ignorant,  public.  Londoners  are  proverbially  ungrateful ;  they 
also  think  it  fine,  and  superior,  to  cavil  at  their  works  of  art. 
Mr.  Gilbert  designs  a  Florentine  fountain  in  Piccadilly  Circus ; 
the  very  'bus-conductors  fling  their  handful  of  mud  at  it  as 
they  pass ;  the  new  Gothic  Law  Courts  arise  in  the  Strand,  to 
be  freely  criticised,  and  vituperated  not  only  by  every  budding 
architect,  but  also  by  every  "man  in  the  street";  the  City 
Powers  erect  a  Temple  Bar  Memorial  Griffin,  and  nothing  less 
than  their  heads,  it  is  felt,  should  with  propriety  go  to  adorn  the 
monument  of  their  crass  Philistinism.  A  scheme  is  proposed 
for  an  addition  to  the  cloisters  of  Westminster,  and  a  public- 
spirited  citizen  offers  to  carry  it  out  at  his  own  expense :  he  is 
promptly  fallen  foul  of,  as  a  desecrator  of  the  shade  of  Edward 
the  Confessor,  by  the  united  force  of  the  press.  It  is  hard, 
indeed,  in  these  critical  days  to  be  a  philanthropist  ! 

And  not  only  are  we  thus  critical  to  works  of  our  own  day, 
but  also  to  those  of  the  past.  Old  London,  no  less  than  New 
London,  is  gibed  at  and  mocked.  "A  province  in  brick," 
"  a  squalid  village,"  "  a  large  wen  "  ;  such  are  only  a  few  among 
the  epithets  that  have  from  time  to  time  been  hurled  at  it  by 
men  and  women  of  letters.  And  yet,  looking  at  the  matter 
calmly  and  without  prejudice, — are  London  stones,  indeed,  so 
unworthy,  so  poor,  so  inglorious  ? 

In  respect  of  its  architecture,  as  in  nearly  every  other  respect, 
London  suffers,  primarily,  from  its  vast  size.  "One  cannot 
see  the  forest  for  the  trees."  What  chance  has  Italian  cupola, 


xvin  "  A  MIGHTY  MAZE"  449 

Doric  portico,  Gothic  gable,  so  crowded  and  overpowered  in 
the  busy  mart  of  men  and  of  things  ?  And  how  many 
people,  in  the  whirl  and  rush  of  London,  even  look  at  the 
surrounding  buildings  at  all  ?  Ask  the  ordinary  person  what 
the  dominating  architecture  of  London  is ;  he  or  she  will  very 
probably  be  unable  to  make  a  suggestion  on  the  matter,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  the  question  never  occurred  to  them  in 
all  their  lives  before.  And,  indeed,  it  is  in  any  case  a  difficult 
question  to  answer.  In  this  vast  conglomeration  of  houses, 
houses  built  mainly  for  utility  and  not  for  beauty,  it  is  difficult 
to  see  at  first  anything  but  heterogeneous  chaos ;  all  seems  "a 
mighty  maze,  without  a  plan  "  ;  and  the  really  noteworthy  build- 
ings are  apt  to  be  missed.  The  few  Norman  or  Saxon  antiquities 
may  well  be  passed  over,  and  even  a  "gem  of  purest  ray 
serene  ''  such  as  Staple  Inn,  may  be  overlooked  in  the  general 
bustle  of  busy  Holborn.  To  the  large  body  of  shoppers  from 
the  country  and  suburbs,  "  London  "  is  represented  satisfac- 
torily, and  finally,  by  the  gay  thoroughfares  of  Regent  Street 
and  Oxford  Street ;  "  the  part  where  the  shops  are."  And  the 
white  gleaming  river,  crossed  by  its  many  bridges,  encircling 
the  black  causeways,- — the  long  line  of  the  Embankment,  the 
Westminster  towers  at  one  end  of  it.  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  on 
the  other, — are,  possibly,  all  that  remains  of  London  in  the  mind 
of  the  average  Londoner ;  his  view  of  it  more  or  less  resembling 
Byron's  : 

"  A  mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping, 

Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  then  lost  among  the  forestry 
Of  masts  ;  a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 

On  tiptoe  through  their  sea-coal  canopy  ; 
A  huge,  dun  cupola,  like  a  foolscap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head — and  there  is  London  Town  !  " 

Why  should  we,  the  travellers  of  the  world,  who  so  admire 
other  cities,   so  persistently  pour  obloquy  on  our  own  ?     It  is 

G    G 


450 


DUST  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


true  that  London,  on  a  day  of  east  wind,  when  the  sky  is  leaden, 
when  suffering  is  writ  large  on  the  faces  of  poor  humanity, 
and  when  dirty  tracts  of  paper,  notwithstanding  the  Borough 
Councils,  blow  about  in  all  directions,  is  hardly  inspiring  ;  and 
on  a  wet  day,  or  a  day  of  fog,  when  pedestrians  peer  vainly 
through  that  "  light  which  London  takes  the  day  to  be,"  and 
suffering  'bus  and  dray  horses  slide  and  stagger,  in  the  peculiar 
glutinous  composition  termed  "  London  mud,"  through  the 
murky  thoroughfares,  it  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  at  its  best. 
But  then,  neither  are  Paris  nor  Berlin  prepossessing  under  like 
circumstances  ....  Paradise  itself  would  be  at  a  discount ! 
But,  on  fine  days  of  spring  or  summer,  days  when  the  May 
sun,  with  "  heavenly  alchemy,"  transforms  the  dust  in  the 
atmosphere  to  gold, — when  the  slight  haze  of  a  London  summer 
but  adds  to  pictorial  charm, — does  not  the  great  city  seem  a  very 
Eldorado  ?  Days  such  as  these  surely  inspired  Mr.  Henley's 
London  Voluntaries  ;  soot,  fog,  grime  are  all  forgotten  ;  •  the 
city  sparkles  like  a  many-faceted  diamond,  and 

"  Trafalgar  Square 

(The  fountains  volleying  golden  glaze) 
Shines  like  an  angel-market.     High  aloft 
Over  his  coachant  lions  in  a  haze 
Shimmering  and  bland  and  soft, 
A  dust  of  chrysoprase, 
Our  Sailor  takes  the  golden  gaze 
Of  the  saluting  sun  .  .   .   ." 

Yet  it  is,  on  the  whole,  not  so  much  ourselves,  as 
foreigners  and  colonials,  who  are  and  have  been  the  harshest 
critics  of  London  stones.  The  colonists  of  Melbourne, 
accustomed  to  their  own  straight,  wide  streets,  are  shocked  at 
our  narrow,  tortuous,  and  inconvenient  city  thoroughfares ;  the 
denizens  of  New  York,  fresh  from  their  own  system  of  regular 
"  blocks,"  their  town  of  parallelograms,  are  amazed  at  London's 
want  of  "plan."  The  French,  recalling  their  tall,  white 
palaces  of  the  Place  du  Louvre  and  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  are 


FOREIGN  VIEWS  451 

surprised  no  less  at  our  prevailing  soot  and  grime,  than  by  the 
lack  of  continuity  in  our  streets,  of  conformity  in  our  public  build- 
ings. So  depressed,  indeed,  was  M.  Daudet  in  our  metropolis 
that  he  went  so  far  as  to  call  Englishwomen  "  ugly  "  ;  the  kindly 
and  accomplished  author  must  really  have  suffered  from  "  the 
spleen."  So,  also,  must  M.  Taine,  when  he  unkindly 
likened  Nelson,  on  the  top  of  his  column,  to  "  a  rat  impaled 
on  the  top  of  a  pole,"  and  added,  further,  that  a  swamp  like 
London  was  "  a  place  of  exile  for  the  arts  of  antiquity."  Not 
one  of  these  critics,  be  it  observed,  recognises  either  the 
"  aesthetic  value  "  of  soot,  or  the  charm  of  irregularity.  And 
see  how,  even  when  we  do  try  after  conformity  and  classical 
regularity,  they  fall  foul  of  us !  For  instance,  M.  Gabriel 
Mourey,  in  his  charming  book  on  England,  Passe  k 
Detroit,  while  admiring  the  beauty  of  Regent's  Park,  makes 
somewhat  scornful  reference  to  those  too-ambitious  stucco 
terraces,  designed  by  Nash  in  the  Prince  Regent's  time : 

"The  turf  of  Regent's  Park"  (he  says)  "under  that  misty  sun  of  the 
London  summer,  that  gives  both  a  vagueness  to  the  horizon  and  an  indefin- 
ite enlargement  to  the  immense  city  ....  the  turf  of  Regent's  Park,  with 
its  depths  of  real  country,  notwithstanding  the  '  new  Greek '  lines  of  the 
big  houses  appearing  in  the  distance — Greek  lines  that  harmonise  so  badly 
with  that  northern  sun." 

Equally  severe  is  M.  Taine,  the  accomplished  and  broad- 
minded  critic.  Hear  his  condemnation  of  one  of  our  finest 
palaces  : 

"  A  frightful  thing  is  the  huge  palace  in  the  Strand,  which  is  called 
Somerset  House.  Massive  and  heavy  piece  of  architecture,  of  which  the 
hollows  are  inked,  the  porticoes  blackened  with  soot,  where,  in  the  cavity 
of  the  empty  court,  is  a  sham  fountain  without  water,  pools  of  water  on  the 
pavement,  long  rows  of  closed  windows — what  can  they  possibly  do  in 
these  catacombs?  It  seems  as  if  the  livid  and  sooty  fog  had  even  befouled 
the  verdure  of  the  parks.  But  what  most  offends  the  eyes  are  the  colonnades, 
peristyles,  Grecian  ornaments,  mouldings,  and  wreaths  of  the  houses,  all 
bathed  in  soot ;  poor  antique  architecture — what  is  it  doing  in  such  a 
climate  ?  ; 

G    G    2 


452  MIXED  ARCHITECTURE  CHAP. 

We  give  up  the  whole  defence  of  the  Regent's  Park  houses ; 
yet,  surely,  poor  Somerset  House  was  hardly  deserving  of 
all  this  satire  !  Somerset  House,  though  its  river  frontage  is 
inadequate  and  lacking  in  dignity,  yet  testifies  to  the  ability  of 
its  eighteenth-century  architect,  Sir  William  Chambers.  The 
older  palace  of  Protector  Somerset,  that  English  prison  where 
two  poor  foreign  queens,  Henrietta  Maria  and  Catherine  of 
Braganza,  languished  in  desolate  grandeur,  has  given  place  to  an 
imposing  structure,  a  community  of  Inland  Revenue,  a  Circum- 
locution Office  on  a  vast  scale.  Situated  at  the  Strand  end 
of  Waterloo  Bridge,  its  condemned  river  facade  looms,  never- 
theless, attractively  in  gleaming  whiteness,  across  the  water — a 
whiteness  to  which  the  encroaching  soot  that  the  French 
writers  complain  of  only  lends  picturesque  setting. 

M.  Taine,  however,  had  evidently  no  eye  for  sooty  effects. 
To  him,  that  mystic  view  from  the  river  bridges,  that  view 
that  inspired  his  best  sonnet  in  Wordsworth,  a  "  nocturne  " 
in  Mr.  Whistler,  and  immortal  art  in  the  boy  Turner,  has  to 
him  merely  "the  look  of  a  bad  .drawing  in  charcoal  which 
some  one  has  rubbed  with  his  sleeve." 

While  London's  natural  and  primitive  instinct  is  perhaps 
toward  Gothic  architecture  ("  the  only  style,"  says  M.  Taine 
of  Westminster  Abbey,  "that  is  at  all  adapted  to  her 
climate,")  yet,  no  doubt,  the  prevailing  note  of  her  architec- 
ture is  its  cosmopolitanism.  It  is  her  misfortune,  as  well  as  her 
glory,  to  show  every  kind  of  feverish  architectural  craze  and 
style  in  close  juxtaposition — Gothic,  Renaissance,  Norman, 
Greek,  and  Early  English.  Ardent  spirits  have,  at  various 
times,  sought  to  erect  in  her  streets  the  oriflammes  of  other 
nations,  quite  regardless  of  suitability  or  appropriate  setting. 
Italian  spires  and  cupolas  that  would  adorn  their  native  valleys, 
and  shine,  gleaming  pinnacles  of  white, — landmarks  to  the 
wandering  peasant  over  the  intervening  black  forest  of  pines, — 
are  here  crowded,  perhaps,  between  a  fashionable  "emporium  " 
and  a  modern  hotel ;  Doric  temples,  such  as  should  stand 


WREN'S  REBUILDING  453 

aloof  in  lonely  grandeur  each  on  its  tall  Acropolis,  here  are 
sandwiched,  maybe,  between  a  model  dairy-shop  and  a 
fashionable  library;  Renaissance  palaces  that,  by  the  waters 
of  Venice,  would  reflect  their  arches  and  pillars  in  a  sunny, 
golden  glow,  here  confront  blackened  statues  of  square-toed 
nineteenth-century  philanthropists, — or,  more  prosaic  still,  a 
smoke-breathing  London  terminus  ! 

Yet,  while  we  concede  the  Gothic  style  to  be  more  in  keep- 
ing with  London  skies  and  spirits,  it  is,  nevertheless,  difficult 
to  say  which  of  her  styles  is  most  dominant — for  all,  truly,  have 
been  dominant  in  their  day.  For  London,  in  this  respect,  has 
been  the  victim  of  succeeding  fashions  ;  over  her  resistless  and 
long-suffering  mass  have,  in  every  new  age  and  decade, 

"  Bards  made  new  poems, 
Thinkers  new  schools, 
Statesmen  new  systems, 
Critics  new  rules." 

Nearly  every  decade  of  the  past  two  centuries  can  be  traced 
by  the  scholar  in  London  streets  and  monuments.  Nay,  from 
the  time  of  the  Great  Fire,  when  Wren,  that  master 
spirit  in  architecture,  rose  in  his  strength,  and  undertook 
to  rebuild  sixty  destroyed  churches, — the  progress,  or  falling-off, 
of  London  in  this  art  can  be  generally  traced  in  the  metro- 
polis. Wren,  best  known  to  posterity  as  the  builder  of  St. 
Paul's,  was  a  remarkable  figure  of  his  robust  time.  Like  the 
magician  of  some  old  fairy  tale,  he  caused  a  new  and  more 
beautiful  London  to  rise  again  from  its  ashes.  Macaulay 
wrote  of  him  : 

"In  architecture,  an  art  which  is  half  a  science  ....  our  country 
could  boast  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution  of  one  truly  great  man,  Sir 
Christopher  Wren  ;  and  the  fire  which  laid  London  in  ruins,  destroying 
13,000  houses  and  89  churches,  gave  him  an  opportunity  unprecedented  in 
history  of  displaying  his  powers.  The  austere  beauty  of  the  Athenian 
portico,  the  glowing  sublimity  of  the  Gothic  arcade,  he  was,  like  most  of 
his  contemporaries,  incapable  of  emulating,  and  perhaps  incapable  of  appre- 


454  INIGO  JONES  CHAP. 

dating  ;  but  no  man  born  on  our  side  of  the  Alps   has  imitated  with  so 
much  success  the  magnificence  of  the  palace  churches  of  Italy  " 

Wren's  master- work,  it  may  be  said,  is  after  all  only  imita- 
tive ;  St.  Paul's  in  London  is  but  an  adaptation  of  St.  Peter's 
in  Rome.  But  it  is  a  free  adaptation,  and  in  the  grand  style. 
Nor  will  any  one  be  disposed  to  deny  the  great  architect's  wealth 
of  imagination,  originality  and  resource,  who  studies  Wren's 
sixty  City  churches,  none  of  which,  either  in  spire  or  church 
itself,  is  a  duplicate  of  another.  Perhaps,  among  them  all,  it 
is  the  spire  of  St.  Mary-le-Bow  that,  for  grace  and  beauty  of 
design,  bears  away  the  palm. 

For  forty  years  no  important  building  was  erected  in  London 
in  which  Wren  was  not  concerned.  That  his  wider  plan  for 
the  regulating  and  straightening  of  the  streets  themselves  was 
not  adopted  we  have,  perhaps,  reason  to  be  thankful.  While 
nearly  all  the  city  spires  recall  Wren's  master-hand  and  versa- 
tile tastes,  the  Banqueting  House,  that  well-known  palatial 
fragment  in  Whitehall,  is  the  principal  monument  left  to  us  by 
Inigo  Jones,  Wren's  immediate  predecessor.  Inigo  Jones  is 
principally  famous  as  the  designer  of  that  splendid  palace  of 
Whitehall  that  was  never  built,  that  "  dream-palace  "  of  Palla- 
dian  splendour  that  was  intended  to  replace  the  ancient  "  York 
House "  of  Wolsey,  the  former  "  Whitehall "  of  the  Tudors. 
The  river-front  of  this  imagined  palace,  as  designed  by  Inigo, 
would,  in  its  noble  simplicity,  have  been  a  thing  of  beauty  for 
all  time  ;  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  plan  was  never  carried 
out.  The  civil  troubles  of  the  impending  Revolution,  the  want 
of  money  for  so  grandiose  a  scheme,  prevented  the  under- 
taking. The  sole  realisation  of  the  dream  is  now  the  old 
Banqueting  House  that  we  pass  in  Whitehall,  a  building  iso- 
lated among  its  neighbours,  intended  only  as  the  central  por- 
tion of  but  one  wing  of  the  enormous  edifice.  Cruel,  indeed, 
is  the  irony  of  history,  and  little  did  James  I.,  for  whose  glory 
this  magnificent  palace  was  planned,  think  "  that  he  was  rais- 
ing a  pile  from  which  his  son  was  to  step  from  the  throne  to  a 


xvin  WHITEHALL :  IMAGINED,  AND  ACTUAL  455 

scaffold."  For  this  very  Banqueting  House  served  later  as 
Charles's  vestibule  on  his  way  to  execution.  With  the  final 
banishment  of  the  Stuarts,  Whitehall  was  deserted  as  a  Royal 
residence ;  and  the  old  palace,  destroyed  by  successive  fires, 
its  picturesque  "  Gothic  "  and  "  Holbein  "  gateways  removed 
as  obstructions,  has  in  its  turn  made  way  for  imposing  Govern- 
ment Offices.  Yet  the  Banqueting  House,  sole  and  sad  relic 
of  a  vanished  past,  still  stands  solidly  in  its  place,  and  is  now 
used  as  a  Museum. 

What,  one  imagines,  would  modern  London  have  been  had 
Inigo  Jones's  plan  found  fruition,  and  the  whole  of  Whitehall, 
from  Westminster  to  the  Banqueting  House,  been  given  up  to 
his  palatial  splendours  ?  That  the  present  Buckingham  Palace 
is  but  a  poor  substitute  for  such  imagined  magnificence  is  cer- 
tain, and  the  loss  of  Inigo's  fine  Palladian  river-frontage  is 
perhaps  hardly  atoned  for  by  the  terrace  of  our  modern  Houses 
of  Parliament ;  yet  these,  too,  are  beautiful,  and  Whitehall  has 
not  lost  its  palatial  air  ;  for  its  wide  and  still  widening  streets, 
its  spacious  and  imposing  Government  Offices,  still  serve  to 
keep  up  the  illusion,  and,  at  any  rate,  the  state  of  royalty. 
Already  one  of  the  handsomest  streets  in  London,  its  build- 
ings are  being  yet  further  improved,  and  a  new  War  Office  of 
vast  proportions  is  rising  slowly  on  the  long-vacant  plot  of 
ground  where,  it  was  said,  three  hundred  different  kinds  of 
wild  flowers  lately  grew,  whose  yellow  and  pink  blossoms  used 
to  wave  temptingly  before  the  eyes  of  travellers  on  omnibus- 
tops.  .  .  .  Now,  never  more  will  flowers  grow  there ;  no  longer 
\\ill  the  picturesque,  green-gabled  roofs  of  "Whitehall  Court" 
look  across  to  the  fleckered  sunlight  of  the  Admiralty  and 
the  Horse  Guards.  Instead,  palatial  buildings,  something 
after  the  Pailadian  manner  of  Inigo  Jones's  imagined  Whitehall 
Palace,  will  form  a  noble  street,  in  a  more  or  less  continuous 
line  of  massive  splendour  ;  a  road  of  palaces,  to  be  further 
dignified  by  the  erection  of  new  and  spacious  Government 
Offices,  near  the  Abbey,  on  the  line  of  the  destroyed  and 


456 


THE  WHITEHALL  OF  THE  FUTURE 


CHAP. 


obstructive  King  Street.  When  all  the  Whitehall  improve- 
ments are  carried  out,  the  dignity  and  beauty  of  London  will 
gain  immensely,  and  the  view  down  the  long  street  of  palaces, — 
the  Abbey,  unobstructed  by  intervening  buildings,  shining  like 


The  Horse  Guards. 


a  star  at  its  Parliament  Street  end, — will  be  among  the  very 
finest  sights  in  the  metropolis. 

If  Inigo  Jones,  steeped  in  Italian  art,  was  severely  Palladian 
in  style,  Wren,  his  successor,  "  a  giant  in  architecture,"  was  a 


xvin  THE  CLASSICAL  FEVER  457 

versatile  and  original  genius.  The  quantity  and  the  quality  of 
his  work  may  well  overpower  a  later  age.  "  He  paved  the  way," 
says  Fergusson,  "and  smoothed  the  path";  none  of  his 
successors  have  surpassed  if,  indeed,  equalled  him.  During 
the  eighteenth  century,  the  Renaissance  still  held  sway  in  archir 
tecture;  James  Gibbs,  in  1721,  built  the  church  of  St. 
Martin-in-the-Fields,  of  which  the  Grecian  portico,  says  Mr. 
Hare,  "  is  the  only  perfect  example  in  London  " ;  the  brothers 
Adam,  of  "  Adelphi "  fame,  flourished,  giving,  with  their 
doorways,  their  fireplaces,  their  curves  and  arches,  a  new 
impulse  to  the  domestic  architecture  of  their  day  ;  Sir  William 
Chambers  erected  Somerset  House  ;  and  Sir  John  Soane,  who 
in  1788  designed  the  present  Bank  of  England,  was,  with 
others  of  his  contemporaries,  a  pioneer  of  the  coming  classical 
revival.  With  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  the 
change  came,  and  architectural  design  in  England  completely 
changed.  Now  the  "  new  Greek  lines  "  that,  say  the  French,  "  go 
so  ill  with  our  northern  climate,"  became  all  the  rage ;  the  mild 
Gothic  of  Wren,  itself  a  "last  dying  echo,"  completely  dis- 
appeared, and  Greek  temples,  "  orders,"  pediments,  columns, 
grew  everywhere  like  mushrooms.  Nash,  the  architect  of  the 
Regency,  the  "  Apostle  of  Plaster,"  planned  out  Regent  Street, 
a  new  road  to  extend  from  the  Prince's  colonnaded  mansion 
Carlton  House,  to  the  new  Park  named  after  him  :  hence  arose 
the  Quadrant,  and  the  Regent's  Park  terraces  already  alluded  to. 
All  was  Greek,  everything  was  colonnaded,  at  that  day : 

"  Once  the  fashion  was  introduced  it  became  a  mania.  Thirty  or  forty 
years  ago  no  building  was  complete  without  a  Doric  portico,  hexastyle,  or 
octastyle,  prostylar,  or  distyle  in  antis  ;  and  no  educated  man  dared  to 
confess  ignorance  of  a  great  many  very  hard  words  which  then  became 
fashionable.  Churches  were  most  afflicted  in  this  way  ;  next  to  these  came 
gaols  and  county  halls,  but  even  railway  stations  and  panoramas  found 
their  best  advertisements  in  these  sacred  adjuncts  ;  and  terraces  and  shop- 
fronts  thought  they  had  attained  the  acme  of  elegance  when  either  a 
wooden  or  plaster  caricature  of  a  Grecian  order  suggested  the  classical  taste 
of  the  builder." 


458  THE  APOSTLE  OF  STUCCO  CHAP. 

Nash  was  the  chief  introducer  of  "  stucco  "  (the  covering  of 
brick  with  cement  to  imitate  stone),  which  has  since  become 
so  vulgarised  everywhere,  and  especially  in  the  fashionable 
West  End  squares  and  streets.  Nash's  tastes  in  this  respect 
gave  rise  to  the  following  epigram  : 

"  Augustus  at  Rome  was  for  building  renowned, 
And  of  marble  he  left  what  of  brick  he  had  found ; 
.  But  is  not  our  Nash,  too,  a  very  great  master  ? 
He  finds  us  all  brick,  and  he  leaves  us  all  plaster." 

All  the  great  public  buildings  of  the  time  shared  in  the 
classic  revival.  The  British  Museum,  built  by  the  Smirkes  in 
the  first  half  of  the  last  century,  at  enormous  expense,  is  the 
most  successful  imitation  of  Ionic  architecture  in  England. 
The  style  of  the  pediment  is  after  that  of  the  Athenian 
Acropolis.  Though  critics  object  to  it  that  it  has  no  suitable 
base,  it  is,  nevertheless,  an  imposing  structure.  The  Greek 
portico  of  the  London  University  Buildings,  in  Gower  Street, 
erected  by  Wilkins  in  1827,  is,  says  Fergusson,  "the  most 
pleasing  specimen  of  its  class  ever  erected  in  this  country." 
But  it  is  so  secluded  and  recessed  from  the  street,  as  to  be  hardly 
seen.  Its  architect,  Wilkins,  had  the  misfortune  to  be  chosen 
to  erect  our  much-abused  National  Gallery  building,  with  its 
condemned  "  pepper-boxes  "  of  cupolas  ;  the  designer,  however, 
was  so  hampered  by  conditions  and  restrictions, ,  as  to  be 
almost  helpless  in  the  matter.  The  National  Gallery,  never- 
theless, still  stands  on  the  finest  site  in  London,  an  object  of 
scorn  to  visitors  and  foreigners. 

But  the  ultra-classic  craze,  in  London,  burnt  itself  out  at 
last  in  one  final  flare.  Of  the  innumerable  buildings  that 
still  tell  of  the  extent  of  the  mania,  perhaps  the  most  ex- 
aggerated is  the  church  of  New  St.  Pancras,  built  after  not  one 
but  several  Athenian  temples.  It  is  a  strange  medley  of  forms, 
a  real  nightmare  of  Greek  art.  Its  tower  is  a  double  repro- 
duction of  the  "  Temple  of  the  Winds,"  one  temple  on  the 


xvm  THE  GOTHIC  REVIVAL  459 

top  of  the  other :  while  its  interior  and  its  caryatids  are 
modelled  on  the  Erechtheion.  Poor  caryatids,  designed  for 
the  bright  sunlight  of  the  Acropolis,  and  imprisoned, 
blackened  and  ogre-like,  in  the  dreary  and  muddy  Euston 
Road  !  "  Calm  "  you  may  be,  in  your  pre-surroundings,  but 
hardly  "  far-looking  " ;  for  your  view  is  restricted  (even  if  fog 
does  not  restrict  it  yet  further)  to  the  uninspiring  buildings  of 
Euston  Station  opposite  !  Truly,  they  who  placed  you  here  must 
have  been  somewhat  lacking  in  sense  of  humour  !  The  double 
Tower  of  the  Winds  is  not  so  unhappy  as  the  poor  caryatids  ; 
it  even  looks  well,  in  its  height  and  its  silvery  grey  ness,  seen  over 
the  Tavistock  Square  trees,  which  hide  its  inadequate  portico. 
The  failure  of  this  incongruous  church,  added  to  its  vast 
expense,  brought  the  final  reaction  from  the  classical  fever  ;  yet, 
from  one  extreme,  men  directly  rushed  to  the  other. 

The  Gothic  revival,  as  might  be  expected,  set  in  severely ;  the 
classic  sculptors  changed  their  style  and  became  Gothic  ;  new 
Gothic  sculptors,  Pugin,  Britton,  and  others,  arose  on  the 
artistic  firmament.  Then,  in  1840-59,  Sir  Charles  Barry 
built  the  chief  modern  architectural  feature  of  London,  the 
New  Palace  of  Westminster,  in  the  mediaeval  and  Tudor  style. 
The  small  chapel  of  Henry  VII.  gave  the  idea  for  this  vast 
edifice.  The  enormous  structure,  so  often  criticised,  is  yet,  to 
judge  by  the  many  photographs  and  views  annually  sold  of  it, 
the  most  popular  building  in  London. 

Even  M.  Taine,  who  consistently  falls  foul  of  all  London 
architecture  that  is  not  Gothic,  speaks  thus  of  it : 

"  The  architecture  ....  has  the  merit  of  being  neither  Grecian  nor 
Southern  ;  it  is  Gothic,  accommodated  to  the  climate,  to  the  requirements 
of  the  eye.  The  palace  magnificently  mirrors  itself  in  the  shining  river  ; 
in  the  distance,  its  clock-tower,  its  legions  of  turrets  and  of  carvings  are 
vaguely  outlined  in  the  mist.  Leaping  and  twisted  lines,  complicated 
mouldings,  trefoils  and  rose  windows  diversify  the  enormous  mass  which 
covers  four  acres,  and  produces  on  the  mind  the  idea  of  a  tangled  forest." 

The  great  Exhibition  of  1851  gave,  naturally,  much  impetus 


4<5o  THE  QUEEN  ANNE  CRAZE  CHAP. 

to  the  enlargement,  as  well  as  the  architecture,  of  London. 
And  though  the  English  school  of  architects  became  somewhat 
more  catholic  in  taste,  yet  the  Gothic  style  still  held  the  public 
favour.  Butterfield's  severe  church  of  All  Saints,  Margaret 
Street,  delighted  the  public  taste,  and  initiated  the  fashion  for 
"Butterfield"  spires;  Scott's  church  of  St.  Mary  Abbott's, 
Kensington,  was  also  popular.  Would  not  either  of  these  be 
noticed,  if  "planted  out"  in  an  Italian  valley?  And  Street's 
well-known  New  Law  Courts,  in  the  Strand,  built  1879-83, 
are  the  latest  expression  of  modern  Gothic.  Opinion  is  divided 
on  the  subject  of  their  merits,  but  undoubtedly  they  form, 
viewed  from  the  Strand,  a  fine  pile  of  buildings. 

What  is  called  the  "  Queen  Anne  "  building  craze  has  set  in 
strongly  of  late  years,  its  chief  pioneers  being  the  two  architects, 
— Norman  Shaw,  who  built  the  picturesque  mansion  of  Lowther 
Lodge,  solidly  fine  in  its  darkened  red-brick,  close  to  the 
Albert  Hall,  — and  Bodley,  who  designed  the  fine  offices  of  the 
London  School  Board  on  the  Thames  Embankment.  Lowther 
Lodge  is  said  to  "  exhibit  very  well  the  merits  of  the  best  order 
of  "Queen  Anne"  design  of  the  domestic  class  " ;  its  successors 
are  much  more  efflorescent.  Everywhere  now  spring  up  so- 
called  "  Queen  Anne  "  mansions,  streets,  houses,  public  offices  ; 
and  red-brick,  terra-cotta,  nooks,  ingles,  casement  windows  are 
multiplying  ad  libitum  all  over  the  metropolis.  Different  styles 
prevail  at  different  times,  and  the  "Queen  Anne", wave  just 
now  threatens  to  overwhelm  us.  Flats,  stores,  police-stations, 
hotels,  all  are  becoming  "  Queen  Anne."  Even  if  walls  are 
still  thin,  even  if  the  jerry-builder  is  still  to  the  fore,  new  streets 
are,  none  the  less,  built  in  the  "  Queen  Anne  "  manner ;  and 
the  last  stage  of  every  craze  is  worse  than  the  first. 

What,  then,  is  the  prevailing  architecture  of  London  ?  We 
have  perused  its  history ;  we  have  wandered  through  its  streets, 
and  have  gazed  on  all  and  every  style  of  building.  Decision 
ought  to  be  easy.  Yet  it  is  not  so  easy  as  it  looks.  In  the 
Forum  at  Rome,  you  have  to  dig  to  find  out  all  the  different 


xvm  THE  IDEAL  LONDON  461 

strata  of  buildings — republican,  monarchical,  imperial.  In 
London,  it  is  even  more  puzzling,  for  here  you  see  them  all 
together,  above  ground,  in  close  juxtaposition — Tudor,  Stuart, 
Hanoverian — it  needs  more  than  a  magician's  wand  to 
relegate  each  to  its  proper  period  in  history.  Wren's  St.  Paul's, 
the  enormous  Hotel  Cecil,  the  Whitehall  Government  Offices, 
the  old  timbered  mansions  in  Bishopsgate  Street,  Pennethorne's 
new  Tudor  Record  office,  the  Railway  Architecture  of  Charing 
Cross  and  of  Liverpool  Street,  the  Aquarium  hung  gaily  with 
posters,  the  Savoy  Hotel  in  white  and  gold — you  have  them 
all,  side  by  side.  You  pass  through  the  prevailing  stucco  and 
heavy  porticoes  of  Belgrave  Square, — the  new  red-brick  and 
terra-cotta  of  the  Cadogan  and  Grosvenor  Estates, — the  stone 
dignity  of  Broad  Sanctuary, — the  dull  brick  uniformity  of 
Bloomsbury ; — which  style,  think  you,  suits  your  ideal  London 
best? 

But,  while  it  may  reasonably  be  matter  for  conjecture  as  to 
what  architectural  style  really  suits  London  best, — or  if,  indeed, 
a  wholesome  mixture  of  all  styles  be  not  a  desideratum,—  it 
seems,  perhaps,  safe  to  say  that  it  is  the  "  dark  house,"  in  the 
"long,  unlovely  street"  of  Tennyson's  condemnation,  of 
Madame  de  StaeTs  vituperation, — that,  in  its  dull  uniformity, 
really  occupies  most  of  the  area  of  London.  There  are,  of 
course,  minor  differences.  In  West  London,  the  "  unlovely 
street "  may  flower  into  questionable  stucco  ;  in  East  London, 
it  may  become  lower,  dingier,  and  meaner ;  but  in  original 
intent  all  are  the  same.  So  monotonous,  indeed,  are  they, 
that,  in  secluded  squares  or  corners,  one  welcomes  joyfully  an 
original  door-knocker,  even  such  a  door-canopy  as  that  de- 
scribed in  Little  Dorrit,  "a  projecting  canopy  in  carved  work, 
of  festooned  jack-towels,  and  children's  heads  with  water-on- 
the  brain,  designed  after  a  once -popular  monumental  pattern." 
In  interiors,  these  same  monotonous  houses  may  all  differ 
widely,  though  even  here  no  universal  rule  of  taste  can  be  laid 
down ;  and  the  little  School  Board  boy  who  said,  naively, 


462  "OPEN  SESAME"  CHAP. 

"  Rich  people's  houses  ain't  nice  inside ;  there  is  books  all 
round,  and  no  washin' "  unconsciously  testified  to  the  wide 
differences  entailed  by  "the  point  of  view."  In  Mayfair, 
Westminster,  or  Belgravia, — yes,  even  in  Bloomsbury,  one  dull 
brick  or  stucco  house-front  may  present  the  same  external 
gloom  as  another,  and  yet,  internally,  may  differ  much  from 
that  other  in  glory.  And  this  fact  is  typical  of  poor  as  well  as 
of  rich  London.  An  Englishman's  house  is  his  castle,  and 
Englishmen's  tastes,  as  we  know,  are  seldom  much  in  evidence. 
"  Adam "  ceilings,  "  Morris "  tapestries,  Pompeian  courts, 
leafy  vistas,  mediaeval  halls,  "  Queen  Anne "  "  ingleneuks," 
all  these  may  surprise  the  visitor,  when  once  the  "Open 
sesame  "  has  revealed  to  him  all  that  lies  behind  that  magic 
front  door  that  guards  the  Briton's  household  gods  from  the 
vulgar  glare  of  the  street. 

Even  some  of  the  treasure-houses  of  England's  magnates, 
merchant-princes,  and  collectors  are  curiously  unsuggestive 
externally.  In  this  connection  I  may  quote  Mr.  Moncure 
Conway's  description  of  the  late  Mr.  Alfred  Morrison's  house 
in  Carlton  House  Terrace,  adorned  by  the  genius  of  Mr. 
Owen  Jones  : 

"  The  house "  (he  says)  "is  one  of  those  large,  square,  lead-coloured 
buildings,  of  which  so  many  thousands  exist  in  London,  that  any  one  pass- 
ing by  would  pronounce  characteristically  characterless.  It  repeats  the 
apparent  determination  of  ages  that  there  shall  be  no  external  architectural 
beauty  in  London.  Height,  breadth,  massiveness  of  portal,  all  declare  that 
he  who  resides  here  has  not  dispensed  with  architecture  because  he  could 
not  command  it.  In  other  climes  this  gentleman  is  dwelling  behind 
carved  porticoes  of  marble  and  pillars  of  porphyry  ;  but  here  the  cloud  and 
sky  have  commanded  him  to  build  a  blank  fortress  and  find  his  marble  and 
porphyry  inside  of  it.  Pass  through  this  heavy  doorway,  and  in  an  instant 
every  fair  clime  surrounds  you,  every  region  lavishes  its  sentiment ;  you  are 
the  heir  of  all  the  ages." 

The  street  that  Tennyson  really  designed  in  In  Memoriaiii 
was  Wimpole  Street,  surely  not  as  ugly  or  as  pretentious  a 
street  as  many  others  of  the  West  End.  Gower  Street,  too, 


xviii  DULL  UNIFORMITY  463 

was  called  unkindly  by  Mr.  Ruskin  "  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  ugli- 
ness in  British  architecture  "  ;  yet,  indeed,  Bloomsbury  houses, 
unfashionable  as  they  are,  seem  by  their  very  plainness  and 
want  of  adornment  to  maintain  a  certain  dignity  that  is  un- 
known to  those  long  rows  of  stucco  catafalques  of  Kensington 
and  Belgravia,  where,  standing  beneath  the  endless  vista  of 
projecting  porches,  one's  mind  naturally  turns  to  tombs  and 
whited  sepulchres. 

The  Bloomsbury  houses  are,  at  any  rate,  simple  and  inoffen- 
sive. Mr.  Moncure  Conway,  in  a  further  passage,  pleads  the 
cause  of  London's  ugly  residential  streets  : 

"  Much  is  said  from  time  to  time  about  the  ugliness  of  London  street 
architecture  ....  the  miles  and  miles  of  yellow-gray  and  sooty  brick 
houses,  each  as  much  like  the  other  as  if  so  many  miles  of  hollow  block 
were  chopped  at  regular  intervals.  And  yet  there  is  something  so  pleasant 
to  think  of  in  these  interminable  rows  of  brick  blocks,  that  they  are  not 
altogether  unpleasant  to  the  eye.  For  they  are  houses  of  good  size,  com- 
fortable houses  ;  and  their  sameness,  only  noticeable  through  their  vast 
number,  means  that  the  average  of  well-to-do-people  in  London  is  also  vast. 
It  implies  a  distribution  of  wealth,  an  equality  of  conditions,  which  make 
the  best  feature  of  a  solid  civilisation.  There  is  much  beauty  inside  these 
orange-tawny  walls.  Before  any  house  in  that  league  of  sooty  brick  you 
may  pause  and  say  with  fair  security :  In  that  house  are  industrious, 
educated  people  ....  they  have  made  there,  within  their  mass  of  burnt 
clay,  a  true  cosmos,  where  love  and  thought  dwell  with  them  ;  and  between 
all  that  and  a  fine  outside  they  have  chosen  the  better  part." 

But,  according  to  Edward  Gibbon,  the  historian,  the  excuse 
for  London's  ugly  "  exteriors  "  is  not  so  much  because  the  in- 
habitants have  "chosen  the  better  part,"  as  because  the  average 
Englishman  mostly  keeps  his  show  and  his  magnificence  for 
his  country  seat.  Comparing  London  and  Paris,  Gibbon  said 
(in  1763): 

"  I  devoted  many  hours  of  the  morning  to  the  circuit  of  Paris  and  the 
neighbourhood,  to  the  visit  of  churches  and  palaces  conspicuous  by  their 
architecture  ....  An  Englishman  may  hear  without  reluctance  that  in 
these  ....  Paris  is  superior  to  London,  since  the  opulence  of  the  French 
capital  arises  from  the  defects  of  its  government  and  religion.  In  the 


464  SQUARES  OF  QUEEN  ANNE'S  TIME  CHAP. 

absence  of  Louis  XIV.  and  his  successors  the  Louvre'  has  been  left 
unfinished  ;  but  the  millions  which  have  been  lavished  on  the  sands  of 
Versailles  and  the  morass  of  Marli  could  not  be  supplied  by  the  legal 
allowance  of  a  British  king.  The  splendour  of  the  French  nobles  is 
confined  to  their  town  residence  ;  that  of  the  English  is  more  usefully 
distributed  in  their  country  seats  ;  and  we  should  be  astonished  at  our  own 
riches  if  the  labours  of  architecture,  the  spoils  of  Italy  and  Greece,  which 
are  now  scattered  from  Inverary  to  Wilton,  were  accumulated  in  a  few 
streets  between  Marylebone  and  Westminster." 

In  some  parts  of  Bloomsbury, —  Great  Ormond  Street,  for 
instance,  or  Queen  Square,—  some  of  the  old  houses  are  charm- 
ing in  their  darkened  red-brick  and  plain  casements  neatly 
outlined  with  white  paint.  But  then  most  of  these  are,  like 
old  Kensington  Palace,  really  of  Queen's  Anne's  time,  and  the 
original  is  ever  better  than  the  imitation.  No  doubt,  to  the 
inhabitant,  there  are  accompanying  drawbacks  to  some  of 
these  ;  beetles  of  long  standing  may  infest  their  grimy  kitchens, 
and  their  ancient  oak  panelling  may  be  prolific  in  those  large  rats 
which  are  so  unpleasantly  suggestive,  to  the  nervous,  of  ghosts. 

Queen  Square  is  the  oldest  of  all  the  Bloomsbury  Squares  ; 
for  in  1746  London  hardly  extended  further  than  the  northern 
end  of  Southampton  Row,  all  beyond  being  more  or  less  open 
country.  Queen  Square  is  so  named  in  honour  of  Queen  Anne, 
and  her  statue,  as  its  presiding  genius,  adorns  its  further  end, 
which  was  left  open,  as  already  mentioned,  on  account  of  the 
beautiful  view  it  afforded  of  the  heights  of  Highgate  and  Hamp- 
stead.  Of  the  same  solidity  and  almost  mediaeval"  suggestion 
as  Queen  Square  are  the  picturesque  Charterhouse  Square 
(now  mainly  hotels  and  business  precincts),  Trinity  Square, 
near  the  Tower  (with  the  same  tendency),  and  other  unsus- 
pected haunts  of  old  time.  And  in  the  charming  "  old  Court 
suburb "  of  Kensington,  several  such  squares,  delightful  in 
greenery  and  mellowed  red- brick,  are  to  be  found.  How 
refreshing,  for  instance,  is  Kensington  Square,  a  square  that  still 
keeps  its  old-world  look,  and  suggests  Miss  Thackeray's 
pleasant  touches,  despite  the  sad  encroachments  of  modernity 


HOMES  FOR  THE  PEOPLE  465 

at  one  end,  in  the  shape  of  tall  and  very  prosaic  blocks  of 
"  model  dwellings."  There  is,  as  stated,  a  great  modern  craze 
for  red-brick,  and  the  many  new  and  often  quaintly  designed 
houses,  when  darkened  by  years,  will  no  doubt  improve  resi- 
dential London  vastly.  And  despite  the  enormous  recent 
growth  of  London,  and  the  incessant  crowding  of  bricks  and 
mortar,  there  yet  remains  an  almost  suburban  charm  about 
Kensington,  Chelsea,  and  Fulham — in  Kensington  especially — 
where  a  few  old-world  corners  are  still  untouched,  where  Ken- 
sington Palace  still,  in  its  Dutch  solidity,  "  maintains  all  the 
best  traditions  of  Queen  Anne's  time,"  and  where  the  pretty 
modern  dwelling-houses  abound,  described  so  sympathetically 
by  M.  Gabriel  Mourey  in  Passe  le  Detroit : 

"  In  front  of  the  pretty  little  fa$ades  of  the  little  red-brick  houses,  the 
style  which  Philip  Webb,  the  architect,  invented,  and  which  is  so 
happily  appropriate  alike  to  the  requirements  of  English  life  and  to  the 
colour  and  movements  of  the  atmosphere,  it  is  pleasant  to  dream  of  an 
existence  in  which  all  is  calm,  intimate,  and  gravely  happy.  The  windows 
are  guillotine-like,  half  hidden  by  balconies  with  trailing  plants,  and 
through  them  one  catches  sight  of  neat,  bright  furniture,  designed  at  once 
for  utility  and  decoration.  A  woman  is  seated  at  the  window,  working  or 
reading,  of  quiet  and  placid  beauty.  The  children  come  in  from  playing  in 
some  neighbouring  park.  They  are  supple  and  vigorous,  like  young 
animals,  frank  and  direct  of  aspect,  not  spoilt  by  any  unhealthy  precocity. 
The  husband  comes  in  from  the  City,  his  bag  in  hand,  after  his  hours  of 
feverish  business,  the  joy  of  the  same  horizon  found  every  evening,  the 
sweetness  of  home  ;  happiness  composed  of  simple,  various  elements,  a 
sensation  of  prosperity  in  all  the  little  houses,  all  alike  the  same  comfort- 
able contentment.  And  as  before  a  camera  or  in  reading  a  book  one  likes 
to  imagine  or  evoke  the  soul  of  the  artist,  so  here  the  personality  of  this 
Philip  Webb  claims  me,  the  soul  of  the  architect  who,  like  Solness,  the 
master  builder,  has  passed  his  life  in  building  not  palaces  or  churches,  but 
simple  houses." 

Such  modern  houses  are,  at  any  rate,  a  great  relief  from  the 
monotonous  and  too-predominating  fever  of  Georgian  and 
Early  Victorian  stucco.  A  new  city  of  red-brick  has  arisen  on 
the  Cadogan  Estate,  and  in  the  remodelled  purlieus  of  Sloane 

H    H 


466  FINE  REBUILDINGS  CHAP. 

Street  big  mansions  of  red  flats  tower  skywards,  and  blossom 
into  oriels,  gables,  dormer-windows,  and  such  like  excrescences. 
Originality  is  a  new  thing  in  London  domestic  architecture,  and 
the  Cadogan  Estate  is,  on  the  whole,  vastly  improved.  The 
Bedford  Estate  of  Bloomsbury  might,  no  doubt,  be  rebuilt  to 
equal  advantage  but  for  two  potent  reasons,  the  one  being  that 
its  house  walls,  built  strongly  in  last  century's  beginning,  show 
no  signs  of  decay ;  the  other,  that  the  fitful  tide  of  fashion  has 
so  deserted  the  locality  as  to  make  the  expense  hardly  worth 
incurring.  Therefore,  Bloomsbury  houses  are  merely  "tinkered" 
up  in  places,  and  adorned  here  and  there  with  facings  and 
mouldings  of  terra-cotta ;  a  half-hearted  proceeding  at  best,  and 
no  more  successful  than  such  half-measures  usually  are. 

But,  while  the  plain,  nondescript  brick  houses  of  Gower 
Street  and  Baker  Street  still  remain  the  prevailing  type  of 
London  architecture,  there  is  everywhere  noticeable  a  tendency 
to  improve  and  embellish  the  streets  of  the  metropolis,  •  to 
rebuild  •  in  a  better  or,  at  any  rate,  a  more  ambitious  way. 
Travelling  along  the  highway  of  Oxford  Street,  from  ancient 
Tyburn  to  Tottenham  Court  Road,  how  many  tall,  new,  and 
ornate  house-fronts  rise  along  the  line  on  each  side  of  us  ! 
There  is  a  warehouse  in  Oxford  Street  by  Collcutt,  which,  say 
architectural  authorities,  "  has  probably  the  most  showy  fagade 
in  England  for  the  money."  The  lease  of  a  small,  mean  house 
expires ;  it  is  promptly  destroyed — to  rise  again  in  dazzling 
red-brick,  terra-cotta,  and  wide  casements.  Everywhere  else  it 
is  the  same ;  everywhere  is  red-brick,  and  red  or  buff  terra- 
cotta, adorning  alike  shop-front,  warehouse,  "  Tube "  station, 
and  palatial  mansion,  till,  indeed,  you  hardly  know  which  is 
which.  Very  good  indeed  is  the  effect  of  some  of  this  new 
street-architecture.  Sometimes  the  new  houses  are  even  re- 
built in  "  old  English  "  style,  or  on  old  models,  with  all  the 
latest  improvements  ;  as,  for  instance,  "  Short's  "  famous  wine- 
tavern  in  the  Strand,  lately  re-erected  as  a  semi-mediaeval 
building,  with  white  and  green  adornments,  sloping  roof, 


xvm  "THE  PATRIOT  ARCHITECT''  467 

and  the  projecting  "sign"  of  old  times.  Could  we  "dip  into 
the  future  far  as  human  eye  can  see  "  ;  were  it  given  to  us,  but 
for  one  moment,  to  behold  the  architectural  glories  and  wonders 
of  the  London  of,  say,  the  year  A.D.  2000 ;  well,  we  should,  at 
any  rate,  comprehend  better  whither  our  present  efforts  tend. 
Then  will  the  public  buildings  of  the  Victorian  Age,  as  of  the 
Elizabethan  Age,  be  pointed  out  proudly  to  the  wondering 
sightseer ;  the  golden  glitter  of  the  "  Anno  Victoriae  "  on  the 
Royal  Exchange  Pediment  will  prove  no  less  inspiring  than  the 
"  Anno  Elizabethse " ;  and  while  such  ancient  monuments  as 
St.  Paul's  or  Westminster  Abbey  must  ever  command  the 
primal  reverence  of  every  Englishman  worthy  the  name,  no  less 
will  such  landmarks  as  the  Albert  Hall,  the  Albert  Memorial, 
the  Natural  History  Museum,  or  the  Imperial  Institute,  speak 
to  the  ages  of  the  famous  "  sixty  years  of  ever-widening 
Empire."  For,  surely,  the  greatest  power  of  architecture  is 
that  it  leaves  the  memorial,  in  turn,  of  every  age.  Therefore, 
all  the  more,  should 

"  You,  the  Patriot  Architect, 
You  that  shape  for  Eternity, 
Raise  a  stately  memorial, 
Make  it  regally  gorgeous,  .... 
Rich  in  symbol,  in   ornament, 
Which  may  speak  to  the  centuries, 
All  the  centuries  after  us  .   .   .   ." 

Architecture,  like  literature,  needs  time  to  orb  it  "  into  the 
perfect  star,"  to  give  it  its  right  place  and  setting  in  history. 
And  yet,  it  should  be  of  every  age.  "  We  could  name,"  said 
the  late  Mr.  Walter  Pater,  "  certain  modern  churches  in 
London  ....  to  which  posterity  may  well  look  back  puzzled. 
Could  these  exquisitely  pondered  buildings  have  been,  indeed, 
works  of  the  nineteenth  century  ?  Were  they  not  the  subtlest 
creations  of  the  age  in  which  Gothic  art  was  spontaneous  ?  In 
truth,  we  have  had  instances  of  workmen,  who,  through  long, 
large  devoted  study  of  the  handiwork  of  the  past,  have  done  the 

H  H  2 


468  NEW  MANSIONS  AND  FLATS  CHAP. 

thing  better,  with  a  more  fully  enlightened  consciousness,  with 
full  intelligence  of  what  those  early  workmen  only  guessed  at." 
The  Albert  Hall,  so  much  abused  for  its  acoustic  defects,  is, 
from  its  impressive  size  at  least,  a  well  known  London  land- 
mark. "  That  monstrous  caricature  of  the  Colosseum,"  some 
one  has  called  it ;  but  critics  of  London's  modern  buildings 
generally  err  on  the  side  of  severity,  and  the  vast  elliptical 
mass  is  certainly  imposing.  In  the  Albert  Hall,  the  new  style 
of  terra-cotta  decorations,  already  referred  to,  is  largely  promi- 
nent ;  the  Pantheon-like  dome  has  a  pleasing  solidity,  and  the 
glow  of  smoke-darkened  red,  in  spring,  is  delightfully  contrasted 
with  the  green  trees  of  the  neighbouring  Park.  Enormous 
"  mansions,"  also  red-brick,  but  hardly  attractive,  have  arisen, 
in  Babel-like  height,  beside  the  Albert  Hall,  painfully  dwarfing 
and  overshadowing  the  charming  building  of  "Lowther 
Lodge"  adjacent.  These  "mansions"  and  "flats"  have 
increased  of  late  years  enormously  in  London,  are,  indeed, 
still  increasing.  From  "  model  lodging-houses "  to  elaborate 
and  expensive  palaces,  every  kind  of  income  and  taste  is,  in 
this  respect,  catered  for ;  and  these  enormous  dwelling-houses, 
— cities,  or  at  least  villages,  in  themselves, — attain  terrific  pro- 
portions of  height  and  size.  In  them  live  "  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions of  men."  Thus,  in  the  "  blocks  "  of  model  dwellings, 
ladies  in  eternal  "  Hinde's  curlers  "  quarrel  vociferously,  with 
arms  akimbo,  from  across  their  railed-in  outer  landing-places ; 
while,  in  more  elaborate  dwellings,  tubs  of  "  yuccas  "  and  other 
evergreen  trees  greet  the  visitor  cheerfully  from  the  glazed-in 
Nuremberg-like  courtyards,  and  elaborate  flower-boxes  adorn 
the  balconies.  Indeed,  the  modern  "flats"  already  form  no 
inconsiderable  factor  in  London's  street  architecture ;  and 
sometimes,  as  in  Bedford  Court  Mansions,  Bedford  Square, 
they  are  of  considerable  artistic  merit.  The  new  hotels,  also, 
are  another  leading  feature  of  modern  London.  Fifty  years 
ago  London  had  but  few  hotels,  and  those  that  did  exist,  often 
left  much  to  be  desired  in  the  way  of  comfort,  cleanliness, 


VENETIAN  AND  SECULAR  GOTHIC  469 

and  reliability.  Now  enormous  palaces  have  arisen  everywhere, 
not  only  in  the  West  End,  but  in  Bayswater,  Bloomsbury,  and 
other  less  modish  quarters ;  sumptuous  mansions,  still  of 
ornate  red  brick  and  terra  cotta,  springing  up  with  the  prompti- 
tude of  an  Aladdin's  palace,  and  dominating,  as  it  may  be, 
their  respective  street  or  square.  It  was  not  long  since  that  I 
chanced  to  meet  two  queens  in  a  cart  filled  with  straw— unregal 
state  for  a  queen  !  going  along,  smiling  placidly,  to  their  final 
resting-place.  The  queens  were  of  terra  cotta,  and  their  last, 
sad  journey  was  presumably  only  from  Doulton's  factories  in 
Lambeth  to  their  destined  abode  on  the  Russell  Hotel  facade  ; 
nevertheless,  I  sympathised  with  the  poor  things  in  their 
patient  submission,  led  thus,  in  an  open  cart,  to  execution, 
roped  and  hung  amid  the  jeers  of  the  populace. 

In  the  "Venetian  Gothic"  style  is  the  modern  Crown 
Insurance  Orifice,  in  New  Bridge  Street,  built  by  Woodward. 
Of  this  edifice,  D.  G.  Rossetti,  who  lived  at  one  time  close  by 
it,  says :  "  It  seems  to  me  the  most  perfect  piece  of  civil 
architecture  of  the  new  school  that  I  have  seen  in  London. 
I  never  cease  to  look  at  it  with  delight."  Of  what  is  called  the 
"  Secular  Gothic "  order,  is  the  large  terra-cotta  "  Natural 
History  Museum,"  at  South  Kensington,  an  ambitious  building 
by  Waterhouse,  about  which  much  difference  of  opinion  rages. 
While  Mr.  Hare  has  no  doubt  at  all  but  that  it  is  "an  embodi- 
ment of  pretentious  ugliness,  a  huge  pile  of  mongrel  Lombardic 
architecture,"  other  authorities  have  seen  in  its  originality 
"  many  evidences  of  anxious  and  skilful  pains."  Its  general 
effect  is,  it  must  be  confessed,  at  present  somewhat  bizarre  and 
striped.  The  "  Prudential  Assurance  Offices,"  also  by  Water- 
house,  built  close  to  the  site  of  old  Furnival's  Inn,  in  Holborn, 
is  a  more  generally  popular  edifice,  sober  and  solid  in  its 
unrelieved,  dark-red  terra-cotta. 

Many  other  notable  buildings  might,  of  course,  be  mentioned, 
but  space  is  limited.  Enough,  however,  has  been  said  to  show 
that  Londoners  are  still  slaves  to  architectural  fashion,  and 


4-0  THE  BEAUTY  OF  GRIME  CHAP. 

that  the  now  prevailing  mode  is  for  red-brick  and  terra-cotta. 
Indeed,  the  London  of  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  and  the 
opening  of  the  twentieth  century,  will  surely  be  "  picked  out  "  by 
future  antiquaries  by  lines  and  "holdings"  of  red,  just  as  the  limits 
of  the  Georgian  and  early- Victorian  classical  fever  are  now  shown 
by  white  Doric  and  Ionic  pediments  and  columns,  gleaming 
from  beneath  their  invading  mantle  of  soot.  Some  people  say, 
by  the  way,  that  the  present  love  of  terra-cotta  as  building 
material,  partly  arises  from  the  fact  that  it  can  be  washed.  If 
this  be  true,  then  it  only  shows  that  the  Londoner  of  to-day  is 
wanting  in  appreciation  of  the  before-mentioned  "artistic 
value "  of  soot.  It  may  be,  that,  like  the  tailless  fox  of  the 
fable,  we  admire  what  we  must  perforce  put  up  with,  or  what  we 
are  accustomed  to.  Yet,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that 
London's  chief  beauty  lies  in  this  all-pervading  grime, 
mellowing,  softening,  harmonizing.  M.  Taine,  we  know,  did 
not  hold  this  view ;  is  it,  indeed,  to  be  expected  from  any  one 
but  a  true,  a  born  Londoner?  St.  Paul's  blackened  festoons 
of  sculptured  roses ;  the  grimy  cupids,  nestling  on  the  pedestals 
of  the  Russell  family's  statues  in  the  Bloomsbury  squares ;  the 
mournful  Greek  frieze  on  the  Athenaeum  Club,  in  Pall  Mall ; — 
yes,  even  the  sooty  resignation  of  the  St.  Pancras  caryatids; 
does  not  the  pall  of  soot,  which  so  afflicts  the  Southerner, 
seem  to  convey  something  of  London's  spirit,  humanity,  Ego, 
in  fact  ?  Who,  for  instance,  will  maintain  that  the  blackness 
of  St.  Paul's  itself  does  not  immeasurably  add  to  the  grandeur 
of  its  effect  ?  As  G.  A.  Sala  said  : 

"  It  is  really  the  better  for  all  the  incense  which  all  the  chimneys  since 
the  time  of  Wren  have  offered  at  its  shrine  ;  and  are  still  flinging  up  every 
day  from  their  foul  and  grimy  censers." 

Who,  also,  will  not  own  that  the  new  Tate  Gallery,  erected  at 
such  expense  by  Sir  Henry  Tate's  munificence  on  the  old  site  of 
Milbank  Prison,  is  not  improving,  year  by  year,  by  the  combined 
action  of  London's  river,  fogs,  and  soot  ?  It  already  looks  less 


xvm  THE  SMILE  OF  THE  CYCLOPS  471 

incongruously  white  amid  its  murky  surrounding  wharves ;  less 
like  a  frosted  wedding-cake,  less  aggressively  Greek  near  the  grey 
Gothic  pile  of  neighbouring  Westminster.  And  what  of  that 
picturesque  railway  station  of  St.  Pancras,  picturesque  with 
the  combined  glamour  of  blue  London  mist  and  distance, 
towering  like  some  shadowy  mediaeval  fortress  over  the  murky 
modernity  of  the  Euston  Road  !  (Even  the  Euston  Road, 
saddest  and  least  inspiring  of  thoroughfares,  can,  on  occcasion, 
be  glorified.)  In  one  of  London's  lurid  autumn  sunsets,  the 
large  red  sun,  obscured  through  fog  and  mist,  sinks  slowly 
behind  the  embattled  towers  of  St.  Pancras,  lending  it  such  an 
appearance  of  romance  that  even  a  French  writer  (not,  however, 
M.  Taine !)  has  called  it : 

"  A  monumental  railway-station,  like  a  cathedral  with  its  arched  windows, 
its  turrets,  and  enormous  belfry,  all  of  red-brick,  which  the  weather 
darkens  so  prettily." 

And  has  not  the  misty,  glory  of  soot  and  river  fog  appealed 
to  Turner,  the  artist ;  appealed,  in  turn,  to  all  the  painters  who 
have  at  all  penetrated  to  the  spirit  of  the  beauty  and  the  mystery 
of  London  ?  Even  M.  Taine,  so  severe  otherwise  upon  London's 
sooty  palaces,  is  compelled  to  admit,  reluctantly,  some  charm, 
after  all,  in  this  "  huge  conglomeration  of  human  creation,"  and 
to  confess  that  "  the  shimmering  of  river-waves,  the  scattering 
of  the  light  imprisoned  in  vapour,  the  soft  whitish  or  pink  tints 
which  cover  these  vastnesses,  diffuse  a  sort  of  grace  over  the 
prodigious  city,  having  the  effect  of  a  smile  upon  the  face  of  a 
shaggy  and  blackened  Cyclops." 

The  "  Cyclops  "  is  maligned  and  traduced  by  tradition,  and 
the  smile  on  his  blackened  face  is  often  beautiful.  We  call 
London  ugly,  mostly  from  mere  custom,  but  very  few  among 
us  trouble  to  look  and  judge  for  ourselves.  "  I  wonder,"  once 
said  Archbishop  Benson,  "  who  out  of  the  many  thousands  who 
daily  pass  St.  Paul's,  ever  look  up  at  it."  And  it  is  so  with 
all  London's  great  and  historic  buildings.  Church  spires  and 


472  THE  STONES  OF  LONDON  CH.  xvm 

towers  were  supposed,  in  the  simple  days  of  old,  to  carry 
the  eye  and  the  mind  up  to  Heaven  ;  but  what  chance  have 
they,  poor  things,  when,  even  on  one  of  London's  delightful 
grey-blue  skies  of  summer,  no  one  heeds  them,  or  their 
message?  Like  Bunyan's  "  Man  with  the  Muckrake,"  we  fix 
our  eyes  ever  steadily  on  the  ground;  the  only  London 
stones  that  attract  our  notice  being  its  jutting  kerb-stones,  its 
sounding  asphalt  and  macadamized  pavements  ....  we  fix 
our  attention  on  the  dull,  dead  levels  ;  we  lose  "  the  fair  illu- 
minated letters,  and  have  no  eye  for  the  gilding."  Yet  we  still 
scoff  at  our  own  historic  city,  not  because  we  ever  look  at  it  on 
our  own  account,  but  because  we  have  always  been  taught  that 
it  is  the  right  thing  to  do  so. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  fine  passages  which  everybody 
knows  and  quotes  about  the  Stones  of  London,  all  refer  to  them 
in  ruins.  Macaulay  placed  his  New  Zealander  on  a  broken 
arch  of  London  Bridge,  to  sketch  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's. 
Shelley  pictured  London  as  "  an  habitation  of  bitterns,"  and 
the  piers  of  Waterloo  Bridge  as  "  the  nuclei  of  islets  of  reeds 
and  osiers."  Rossetti  overthrew  the  British  Museum  in  order 
to  leave  the  archaeologists  of  some  future  race  in  confusion  as 
to  the  ruins  of  London  and  Nineveh.  Ruskin,  who  had  so 
much  that  is  bright  and  beautiful  to  say  of  the  Stones  of  Venice, 
dismissed  London  with  a  warning  of  prophetic  doom  ;  saw  her 
stones  crumbling  "through  prouder  eminence  to  less  pitied 
destruction."  It  is  surely  time  that  some  new  and  ardent 
spirit — some  twentieth-century  Ruskin — with  eyes  no  longer 
set  upon  the  dear  dead  past,  should  fix  his  gaze  on  what  is 
grand  and  significant  in  the  Stones  of  London,  while  still  they 
stand  the  one  upon  the  other ;  and,  seeing,  should  reveal  to 
the  world  something  of  the  sombre  glory  of  its  greatest  city. 


INDEX 


"ADAM  "  DECORATIONS,  246,  462 

Addison,  80,  179,  383 

Adelaide  Gallery,  the,  290 

Advertisement,  art  of,  in  London,  320 

Aggas's  Map,  5,  187 

Ainger,  Canon,  146 

Albany,  the,  380 

Albert  Bridge,  26,  224 

Albert  Embankment,  the,  32 

Albert  Hall,  213,  468 

Albert  Memorial,  397 

All  Hallows  Staining,  tower  of,  55,  81 

"  Almack's,"  181 

Amen  Court,  97 

American  Tourists  in  London,  299 

Ancient  Tomb-portraits,  348 

Anne  Askew,  burning  of,  65 

Antiquarian  zeal,  55 

Appian  Way,  our,  193       , 


Apsley  House,  378 
Arnold,    Sir   Edwin, 


336 


on   a   mummy-case, 


Arnold,  Matthew,  on  Kensington  Gardens, 
395 ;  on  the  legend  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  188  ;  lecture  at  Toynbee  Hall, 

174 

Artists  in  Kensington,  217 
Ashbee,  C.  R.,  176 
"Asia  Minor,"  295 
Asiatics  in  the  East  End,  295 
Astor  Estate  Office,  42 
"  Augusta,"  2,  21 


1] 


BABY-FARMS,  431 

Bacon,  Francis,  139,  160 

Bank  Holiday,  434 

Bankside  theatres,  128 

Barclay  and  Perkins's  brewery,  129 

Barnard's  Inn,  159 


Barnett,  Canon,  173 

Barry,  Sir  Charles,  205 

Bartholomew  Fair,  64 

Battersea  Park,  27,  224,  400 

Beauchamp  Tower,  106 

Beaumont,  Sir  George,  354 

Bedford  Court,  246 

Bedford  House,  242 

Ben  Jonson,  153 

Benson,  Archbishop,  471 

Berkeley  Square,  379 

Berners  Street  hoax,  370 

Besant,  Sir  Walter,  8,  13,  24 

Bevis  Marks,  80 

Billingsgate,  43,  316 

Birds  in  London,  400,  410 

Birkbeck  Bank,  156 

Bishopsgate  Street,  76 

Blackfriars,  13,  42 

Blake,  William,  26,  251,  349,  380,  384 

'•  Bleak  House,"  144,  148,  154,  159,  261 

"  Blenheim  Raphael,''  344 

Bloody  Tower,  104 

Bloomsbury,  238,  247 

Bloomsbury  Square,  243,  245 

Blue  mist,  23,  27,  388,  471 

Boarding-houses,  263,  427 

Bolt  Court,  364 

Bond  Street,  176 

Book-shops,  305 

Booth,  Charles,  446 

Borough  High  Street,  126 

Botanical  Gardens,  406 

Botticelli,  351 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  English,  40 

British  Museum,  333 

Broad  Sanctuary,  204 

"  Brompton  Boilers,"  the,  341 

Brompton  Oratory,  215 

Brontes,  the,  97 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  380 

Brownine,  Robert,  on  view  from  the  dome 

of  St.  Paul  s,  51 
Buckland,  Frank,  230 


474 


INDEX 


Burglars  in  London,  442 
Burne-Jones,  Sir  Edward,  252,  369 
Butler,  Samuel,  42 
Byron's  view  of  London,  449 


CABS  IN  LONDON,  423 

Cabmen,  wages  of,  425 

Calverley's  "Savoyard,"  289 

Campden  Hill,  217 

Canova,  40 

Canterbury  Pilgrims,  the,  126 

Carlton  House,  181 

Carlton  House  Terrace,  181 

Carlton  Restaurant,  322 

Carlyle,  on  the  Press,  14  ;  on  Westminster 
Abbey,  193 ;  on  Cheyne  Row,  225  ;  on 
the  Leigh  Hunts,  226;  his  London 
homes,  261  ;  on  the  British  Museum 
reading-room,  268 ;  and  the  omnibus 
conductor,  422 

Carlyle  House,  the,  224 

Carlyle,  statue  of,  226 

Carlyle,  Mrs.,  225,  260,  392,  442 

Carpaccio,  352 

Caryatids  on  St.  Pancras  Church,  409,  459 

Casual  wards,  441 

Catherine  of  Braganza,  36,  228 

Cats  in  London,  409 

Chained  books  at  Chelsea  Old  Church,  234 

Chancery  Lane,  148 

Chapter  Coffee  House,  97,  183 

Charles  I.,  205 

Charles  II.,  201,  400 

Charterhouse,  9,  68 

Charterhouse  Square,  67,  464 

Chatham,  Lord,  192 

Chatterton,  183,  427 

Chaucer's  Inns,  126 

Cheapside,  81 

Chelsea,  26,  222,  235 

Chelsea  Bun-house,  222,  236 

Chelsea  Embankment,  235 

Chelsea  Ferry,  235 

Chelsea  Hospital,  236 

Chelsea  Old  Church,  231,  233 

"Cheshire  Cheese,"  the  366 

Chesterfield  House,  378 

Cheyne  Row,  224 

Cheyne  Walk,  26,  227 

Chichester  Rents,  148 

Christina  of  Denmark,  351 

Christ's  Hospital,  9 

Churches : — 

All  Hallows,  Barking,  115 

Great  St.  Helen's,  77 

Holy  Trinity,  Minories,  114 

St.  Alphage,  London  Wall,  82 

St.  Bartholomew-the-Great,   Smithfield, 

56 
St.  Botolph,  114 


Churches  : — 

St.  Dunstan-in-the-West,  151 

St.  Edmund  the  King  and  Martyr,  80 

St.  Ethelburga,  79 

St.  Giles,  Cripplegate,  12,  81 

St.  John's  Chapel  (in  the  White  Tower), 
108 

St.  John's,  Clerkenwell,  73 

St.  Magnus,  27,  44 

St.  Margaret's,  Westminster,  202 

St.  Mary,  Aldermanbury,  81 

St.  Mary,  Lambeth,  31 

St.  Mary  Overy,  122 

St.  Michael's,  Cornhill,  75 

St.  Olave's,  Hart  Street,  117 

St.  Pancras,  265,  458 

St.  Paul,  Covent  Garden,  318 

St.  Peter-ad-Vincula,  105 

St.  Peter-upon-Cornhill,  75 

St.  Saviour's,  Southwark,  122 

St.  Swithin's,  82 
Church  House,  Kensington,  220 
Church  House,  Westminster,  204 
"Church  of  Humanity,"  260 
"Church  Parade,"  390,  401 
City  Companies,  the,  14 
Classical  Fever  in  London,  457 
Clement's  Inn,  148 
"  Cleopatra's  Needle,"  36 
Clifford's  Inn,  150 
"  Clink,"  the,  129 
Clive,  Lord,  379 
Cloth  Fair,  58,  64 
ClothworkerV  Hall,  55 
Coal  Exchange,  the,  316 
Cobbett,  23 

Cock  Lane  Ghost,  the,  73 
"Cockney,"  derivation  of,  436 
Cole,  Vicat,  49 
Coleridge,  158 
Collins,  Wilkie,  261 

Comedy  Restaurant,  Panton  Street,  322 
Common  lodging-houses,  441 
Constable,  347,  355 
Con  way,  Moncure  D.,  462,  463 
Coronation  Chairs,  200 
Costermongers,  437 
County  Council,  the,  400 
Court  of  Pie  Powdre,  64 
Covent  Garden  Market,  317 
Covent  Garden,  old  taverns  of,  318 
Cromwell,  153,  199 
Crosby  Hall,  55,  77 
Curzon  Street,  373,  380 


DARWIN,  CHARLES,  258 

Davidson,  John,  on  "  The  Loafer,"  186 

Dean's  Yard,  202 

Defoe,  on  Pall  Mall,  183 

Detectives  in  shops,  309 


INDEX 


475 


Dickens,  on  waterside  scenes,  50  ;  the  Mar- 
shalsea,  130,  134  ;  City  churches,  115  ; 
as  the  chronicler  of  London,  136  ;  on  the 
Borough,  128 ;  Fountain  Court,  143 ; 
Staple  Inn,  155  ;  Barnard's  Inn,  159  ;  his 
social  satires,  177  ;  his  grave,  193  ;  on 
decaying  houses,  240  ;  Bloomsbury  types, 
262  ;  his  private  theatricals,  261  ;  Cock- 
ney types,  312  ;  on  London  houses,  362 

Dining,  the  art  of,  322 

Disappearing  landmarks,  361 

Disraeli  (Lord  Beaconsfield),  on  Regent's 
Park,  17;  on  class  differences  in  London, 
162  ;  his  death  in  Curzon  Street,  373  ; 
on  Kensington  Gardens,  395 

D'Israeli,  Isaac,  243 

Docks,  the,  47 

"  Doggett  "  badge,  235 

"  Domesday  Book,"  151 

Downing  Street,  374 

Drama,  popular  tastes  with  regard  to,  282 

Dress  of  the  poor,  conventionalities  in,  312 


EARL'S  COURT,  220 

Earl's  Terrace,  218 

Eastcheap,  81,  118 

East  End,  the,  168 

Edward  the  Confessor,  189 

Edwardes  Square,  217 

"  Edwin  Drood,"  155,  295 

Eighteenth  Century,  London  in,  179 

Elgin  Marbles,  the,  340 

Eliot,  George,  227 

"Esmond,"  220,  228,  392 

Evelyn's  Diary,  242 

Eyre  Street  Hill,  292 


FACTORY-GIFLS,  437 

Farm  Street  Roman  Catholic  Church,  177 

Fetter  Lane,  15^ 

Fiction  stronger  than  reality,  10,  363,  381 

"First  nights,"  280 

Fleet  Street,  364 

Fleur-de-Lis  Court,  156 

Flowers,   London  children's  love  for,  321, 

402 

Flowers,  in  Regent's  Park,  402 
Flower-girls,  318,  437 
Folly  Ditch,  51 
Fore  Street,  81 
Foreign  waiters,  288 
Foundling  hospital,  263 
"  Fountain  Court,"  143 
"  Four-in-hand  Club,"  390 
"  Fremdenindustrie  "  in  London,  290 
French  furniture  at  Hertford  House,  331 
French  School    of    Painting  at  Hertford 

House,  331 


Frith's  reminiscences,  258 

Frost  Fairs,  44 

Froude,  J.  A.,  on  ancient  tombs,  196  ;  the 

dissolution  of  the  Carthusian  monastery, 

68  ;  Anne  Boleyn,  105 
Furnival's  Inn,  159 


GAINSBOROUGH,  353 

"  Gallery  of  Instruction,"  338 

"Gandish's,"  252,  258 

Gardens,  making  of,  in  London,  <;o8 

Gardens,  private,  in  London  houses,  406 

"Catti's,"  290 

"  Gaunt  House  "  of  "  Vanity  Fair,"  378 

Gibbon,  463 

Gladstone,  W.    E  ,   on  Bloomsbury,  247  ; 

his  London  residences,  373  ;  on  the  way 

to  see  London,  414 
Godfrey,  Sir  Edmondsbury,  36 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  147,  367 
Gordon  Riots,  243 
Gordon  Square,  260 
Gothic  style  in  London,  452-459 
Gough  House,  Chelsea,  236 
Gough  Square  (Dr.  Johnson's  house),  364 
Gower  Street,  258 
Gower's  tomb,  123 
Grant  Allen,  23,  337 
Gray's  Inn,  139,  159 
"Grange,"  the,  North  End,  368 
Great  Coram  Street,  263 
"Great  Expectations,"  159    • 
Great  Fire,  the,  7,  86 
Great  Ormond  Street,  254,  464 
Great  Tower  Hill,  113 
Greenwich,  51 
Greuze's  Pictures,  332 
Grosvenor  Road,  28 
"  Grub  Street,"  64 

"  Guild  and  School  of  Handicraft,"  176 
Guy's  Hospital,  133 
Gwynne,  Nell,  232,  236 


HAIR-DRESSING,  ETHICS  OF,  286 

"  Hand  of  Ethelberta,  The,"  12 

Hare,  A  J.  C  ,  on  St.  Thomas's  Hospital, 
29  ;  Chelsea  Embankment,  32  ;  Gray's 
Inn  Garden,  139  ;  Thames  Street,  316  ; 
Holland  House,  382 

Hatton  Garden,  292,  439 

Haunted  Houses,  379 

Haydon,  395 

Haweis,  Rev.  H.  R-,  229 

Hawthorne,  90,  155,  160 

Herschel,  257 

Hertford  House,  327 

"  Hiring-Fair,"  Jewish,  297 

Hogarth,  63,  265,  368 


476 


INDEX 


Holbein,  351 
Holborn  Restaurant,  322 
Holland  House,  382 
Holly  Lodge,  383 
Holman  Hunt,  W.,  252 
Holy  well  Street,  147 
"  Homes  for  the  People,"  465 
Hood,  Thomas,  40 
Hook,  Theodore,  370 
Hotel  Cecil,  -^3 
Hotels,  palatial,  32 
Houndsditch,  79 
Houses,  historic,  358 
Houses,  humanity  of,  245 
Houses  of  Parliament,  29,  205 
"Humphry  Clinker"  (and   Covent    Gar- 
den), 319 

Humphry  Ward,  Mrs.,  257 
Hunter  Street,  Bloomsbury,  262 
Hyde  Park,  386 


ICE-CREAM  TRADE,  292 

Inchbald,  Elizabeth,  218 

Inigo  Jones,  454 

Inland  Revenue  Office,  36 

Inns  of  Court,  the,  137 

Iron-work,  old,  on  houses,  379 

Irving,  Edward,  260 

Irvingite  Church,  260 

Italian  Colony  in  London,  the,  292 


JACK  CADE,  44 
"Jacob's  Island,"  51 
Jersey,  Lady,  181,  380 
Jerusalem  Chamber,  203 
Johnson,  Dr.,  73,  91,  138,  147,  363 


K 


KATHERINE  HOWARD,  105,  129 
Kensington,  210 
Kensington  Gardens,  394 
"  Kensington  House,"  219 
Kensington  Palace,  382,  394,  465 
Kensington  Square,  220,  464 
King's  Bench  Walk,  Temple,  147 
Kingsley,  Charles,  47 
Kingsley,  Henry,  233 
King's  Road,  Chelsea,  232 
Knightsbridge  Road,  212 


LADY  JANE  GREY,  107 
Lady-lecturers,  330,  333,  342 
Lamb,  Charles,  139,  147,  160 


Lamb's  Conduit  Street,  260,  265 

Lambeth  Palace,  29 

Lang,  Andrew,  37,  320 

Lant  Street,  130 

Laud,  Archbishop,  31 

Law  Courts,  460 

Lawrence,  Sir  Thomas,  245 

Lawson,  Cecil,  227 

Leadenhall  Market,  3 

Lear,  Edward,  259 

Leech,  John,  263,  439 

Leicester  Square,  285 

Leigh  Hunt,  217,  226 

Leighton  House,  the,  377 

Lennox,  Sarah,  382 

Levy,  Miss  Amy,  on  plane  trees  in  Lon- 
don, 408  ;  on  London  isolation,  426 

Liddon,  Canon,  97 

Life  of  London,  the,  285 

Lincoln's  Inn,  152 

Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  154 

Little  Britain,  64 

"Little  Dorrit,"  132,  177,  264 

"Little  Midshipman,  the,"  115 

Lollard's  Tower,  the,  30 

Lombard  Street,  80 

London  :  atmospheric  effects,  388,  412, 
450  ;  approach  to,  23  ;  architecture,  460 ; 
the  cult  of,  20  ;  charm  of,  in  early  sum- 
mer, 385,  400  ;  cosmopolitanism  of,  .285  ; 
crowds,  282  ;  classes  in,  162  ;  contrasts 
in,  19,  54,  151,  167,  175;  crazes,  445; 
colouring  of,  388,  412 ;  feeding  of,  48  ; 
houses,  characteristics  of,  359,  462 ;  iso- 
lation in,  426;  liberty  in,  429;  opportu- 
nities in,  327  ;  phoenix-like,  24,  95,  181  ; 
picturesqueness  of,  49,  388,  411  ;  prim- 
arily a  seaport,'  24 ;  resources  in,  17  ;  re- 
building of,  466  ;  suffering  in,  427,  429  ; 
as  a  tourist  haunt,  33 ;  unexpectedness 
of,  10,  1 8,  54  ;  wealth  of,  47. 

London  Bridge,  43,  121 

Londoners,  ways  of,  414,  416,  462 

London  Stone,  82 

London  Wall,  81,  82 

Lost  children,  442 

Lowther  Lodge,  213,  460 

Ludgate  Hill,  93 

Lyon's  Inn,  159 


M 


MACAULAY,  on  the  tombs  of  Chatham  and 
Pitt,  192  ;  Westminster  Hall,  205  ;  his 
residence  at  Holly  Lodge,  217,  383  ;  in 
Powis  Place,  255  ;  on  Holland  House, 
383  ;  the  New  Zealander,  472 

Maclise,  Daniel,  227 

Mall,  the,  397 

Manning,  Cardinal,  177 

Mansfield,  Lord,  243 

Mansions  and  Flats,  468 

Marchmont  Street,  Bloomsbury,  262 


INDEX 


477 


Marco  Marziale,  349 

Marshall,   Herbert,  388 

Marshalsea,  the,  130 

Marshalsea  Court,  150 

"  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  118,  143 

Matinee  Hat,  282 

Maurice,  F.  D.,  245,  256 

Mausolus,  car  of  (in  British  Museum),  270, 
338 

"May-Day  Sweeps,"  259 

Mecklenburgh  Square,  265 

Mercers'  School,  159 

Meredith,  George,  228 

Michael  Angelo,  354 

Middle  Temple  Hall,  143 

Middle  Temple  Lane,  144 

Millais,  Sir  John,  259 

Millbank  Penitentiary,  Old,  28 

Millionaires,  Uses  of,  327 

Milton,  631,  371 

Mincing  Lane,  81 

Minories,  the,  113 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell,  245 

Model  lodging-houses,  468 

Monasteries,  the  fall  of,  13 

Montague  House,  269,  333,  379 

Monument,  the,  43,  118 

Monumental  Brasses,  115 

Monumental  Sculpture,  91,  193 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  no,  233 

Morley,  Charles,  quoted,  131 

Morris,  William,  252 

Mother  Shipton,  387 

Mpurey,  Gabriel,  on  the  view  from  Char- 
ing Cross  Bridge,  38  ;  the  Tower  Bridge, 
45  ;  the  Pool  of  London,  46  ;  character 
in  hair-dressing,  286  ;  street  markets, 
312  ;  Sunday  in  London,  440  ;  London 
fog,  445  ;  Regent's  Park  terraces,  45 1  ; 
Philip  Webb's  houses,  465 

Mudie's  Library,  305 

Mudlarks,  28 

Mummy-room  at  the  British  Museum,  335 

"  Murdstone  and  Grinby's,"  50,  134 

Museum  Habitues,  268 

"  Museum  Headache  "  337 


N 

NANDO'S  COFFEE  HOUSE,  145 

Nash,  457 

National   Gallery,    344  ;  romance   of,  346, 

Natural  History  Museum,  342,  469 

"  Newcomes,"  The,  69 

New  Inn,  148 

Newsboys,  443 

Newton  Hall,  158 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  158 

New  War  Office,  455 

Nithsdale,  Lord  (escape  from  the  Tower), 

in 
Norman  London,  4 


OLD  CLOTHES  MARKETS,  315 

"  Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  50,  80,  135 

Old  Palace  Yard,  207 

Old  St.  Paul's,  88 

Old  Swan  Tavern,  235 

"Oliver  Twist,"  51 

Omnibuses,  character  in,  420 

Omnibus  Conductors,  418 

Omnibus  travelling,  417 

Open  air  services,  98 

Opium  Dens,  296 

O'Rell,  Max,  on  the  Parks,  390  ;  T.ondon 

omnibuses,  417  ;  London  fog,  444 
Organ-grinders,  263,  439 
Ornithological  Society,  399 
"  Our  Mutual  Friend,"  50 
Oxford  Street,  18 


PALL  MALL,  183 

Panizzi,  247 

"  Pan-opticon  "  of  Leicester  Square,  326 

Pantomimes,  277 

Panj  er  Alley,  97 

Paradise  Row,  232 

"  Paris  Garden,"  128 

Park  Orators,  392,  403 

Parmigiano,  350 

Passmore  Edwards  Settlement,  256 

Patent  Office,  156 

Paternoster  Row,  95 

Pater,  Walter,  218,  467 

Paul's  Cross,  98 

Paul  Pindar's  House,  55,  342 

"  Paul's  Walkers,"  88 

Pavement  Artists,  248 

Penny  Steamers,  25 

Pepys,  Samuel,  116,  139 

Philanthropists,  treatment  of,  in  London, 

448 

Physick  Garden,  the,  234 
Picture-galleries,  330,  343 
Picture  Stories,  346 
Pitman's  Shorthand  Institute,  246 
Pictures,  vicissitudes  of,  346,  351,  353 
Picturesqueness  of  Railways,  23,  95 
Pigeon-fanciers,  315 
Plane-trees  in  London,  408 
Plantagenets,  cuts  of,  199 
Poets'  Corner,  202 
Point  of  View,  the,  164,  169,  172 
Policemen,  425,  442 
Pool  of  London,  the,  44,  46 
Popular  "lines  "  in  shops,  301 
"Portland  Vase,"  336 
Positivist  Society,  158 
Press,  the.  369 

Primrose  Hill,  view  from,  413 
Prince  of  Wales's  Theatre,  old,  284 
Printing-House  Square,  14 
Prior  Bolton,  62 


INDEX 


Prior  Hough  ton,  68 

Protector  Somerset,  35,  73 

Prudential  Assurance  Company's   Offices, 

154,  159,  469 
Pyx,  Chapel  of,  190,  203 


QUALITY  COURT,  156 

Queen  Anne,  201 

Queen  Anne  Craze,  the,  460 

Queen  Anne's  Gate,  397 

Queen  Anne's   Statue,  Ludgate  Hill,  95  ; 

Queen  Square,  241 

Queen  Caroline  (wife  of  George  II.),  394, 
399 

)ueen  Caroline  (of  Brunswick),  202,  370 
zn  Charlotte,  36 
;n  Elizabeth,  25,  51,  201 
;n  Mary  (of  Modena),  31 
Jueen  Mary  II.,  201 
jeen  Victoria,  visit  to  St.  Paul's,  93  ;  at 
Kensington  Palace,  395 
Queen's  House,  Chelsea,"227 
Queen  Square,  241,  254,  264 


RAGGED    CHILDREN,    erudition    of,  734, 

Ragged  Schools,  432 

Rahere,  58 

Raleigh,  107 

"  Ranelagh,"  222 

Reading-room,  British  Museum,  266 

"  Reconciliation,"  Temple  of,  192-199 

Record  Office,  151 

Red  Lion  Square,  253,  254 

Reformation,  the,  8,  62  . 

"  Reformer's  Tree,"  the,  392 

Regalia,  109 

Regent's  Park,  401 

Restaurants,  cheap,  287,  322 

"  Restorers,"  sins  of,  125 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  354 

Richardson,  Samuel,  367 

Richmond's  Mosaics  in  St.  Paul's,  93 

"  King,  The,"  391 

Rocques',  Map  of,  1746,  241 

Rogers,  Samuel,  181 

Rolls  Chapel,  151 

Roman  City  Wall,  81 

Roman  London,  24 

Roman  Remains,  3,  82,  97,  103 

"  Rosamond's  Pond,"  399 

Rosebery,  Lord,  on  St.  James's  Square,  184 

"  Rosetta  Stone,"  the,  339 

Rossetti,  Christina,  251 

Rossetti,  D.  G.,  at  Queen's  House,  Chel- 
sea, 227 ;  at  Red  Lion  Square,  252 ; 
at  the  Working  Men's  College,  256  ;  on 
the  British  Muceum,  270  ;  on  Venetian 
Gothic  in  London,  469 


Rotten  Row,  390 

Rojral  Exchange,  74,  75 

Royal  Mint,  113 

Royal  Society,  158 

Rubens,  351 

Ruskin,  on  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  32  ; 
Victoria  Embankment,  41  ;  the  Pool  of 
London,  49 ;  Social  Contrasts,  185  ; 
South  Kensington  Museum,  341  ;  born 
in  Hunter  Street,  262  ;  at  the  Working 
Men's  College,  256  ;  at  Denmark  Hill, 
371 

Russell,  Lady  Rachel,  242 

Russell,  Lord  William,  154,  242 

Russell  Hotel,  247 

Russell  Square,  244 

Rye  House  Plot,  242 


"  SAILORS'  TOWN,"  the,  49 

St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  66 

St.  James's  Park,  397 

St.  James's  Place,  179 

St.  James's  Square,  184 

St.  James's  Street,  178 

St.  John's  Gate,  Clerkenwell,  72 

St.  Pancras  Station,  27,  265,  471 

St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  42,  51,  84 

St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  95 

St.  Paul's  School,  98 

St.  Thomas's  Hospital,  29 

Sala,  G.  A.,  265 

Sale-Days,  311 

Saleswomen,  trials  of,  302 

Sandford  Manor  House,  232 

Sass's  School,  258 

Savoy  Hotel,  33 

Saxon  London,  4 

Scents,  in  London  districts,  420 

Scotland  Yard,  33 

Scott,  W.  B.,256 

Sea-gulls  in  London,  35,  121 

Seamy  Side,  the,  185,  248,  441 

Sebert,  King  of  the  East  Saxons,  188 

Second-hand  Bookshops,  266,  305 

"  Secular  Gothic,"  469 

Seething  Lane,  116 

Serjeants'  Inn,  149 

Shaw,  Norman,  33,  235,  460 

Shelley,  in  Marchmont  Street,  262 ;  in 
Half  Moon  Street,  361  ;  in  Poland  Street, 
381  ;  on  Hell  and  London,  297 ;  in  the 
Highgate  omnibus,  417 

Shelley,  Harriet,  394 

Shelley,  Mary,  262 

Ships'  figureheads,  29 

Shops  of  London,  299 

Shoppers,  ways  of,  301 

Shop-lifters,  309 

Siddons,  Mrs.,  371 

"  Sixpenny  Days,"  drawbacks  of,  195 

"  Sketches  by  Boz,"  240,  259,  262 

Sloane,  Sir  Hans,  228,  234,  243,  333 


INDEX 


479 


Slum  children,  430 

Smart  Society  in  London,  179,  390 

Smetham,  James,  355,     . 

Smithfield  Martyrs,  64 

Soane  Museum,  375 

Soane,  Sir  John,  376,  457 

Somerset  House,  35,  451-452 

Soot  as  a  beautifier,   23,  27,  go,   388,  452, 

47° 

South  Kensington,  222 
South  Kensington  Museum,  341 
South  Sea  Bubble,  76,  133 
Southwark,  121 
Sparrows  in  London,  410 
Spinello  Aretino,  348 
Spitalfields,  314 
"Spleen,"  the,  444 
Squares  of  Queen  Anne's  Time,  464 
Squares,  Old  London,  charm  of,  244 
Stael,  Madame  de,  23 
Stage  Door,  the,  284 
Stage  Neophytes,  275 
Stage  rehearsals,  279 
Stanley,  Dean,  187,  233 
Staple  Inn,  55,  154 
Stee'e,  Sir  Richard,  243 
"  Steyne,  Lord,"  327 
Stones  of  London,  the   447-472 
Street  Arabs,  434 
Street  games,  432 
Street  markets,  311 
Stuart,  Arabella,  in,  197 
Stuart,  La  Belle,  201 
Submerged,  the,  170,  185 
Sunday  in  London,  440 
Sunday  markets,  314 
"  Sunday  opening,"  326-335 
Sunsets  in  London,  250 
Sutherland  House,  378 
Sutton,  Thomas,  69 
"  Sweating  "  dens,  297,  302 
Swift,  Dean,  177 
Swinburne,  A.  C.,  228,  369 
Swindles  in  London,  443 
Swiss  Waiters,  287 


TAINE,  HENRI,  on  Greek  Architecture 
in  London,  32 ;  the  docks,  48  ;  the 
ways  of  "good  society,"  279;  English- 
women, 286  ;  the  London  Sunday, 326 ; 
British  seriousness, 392  :  Somerset  House, 
451  ;  the  Houses  of  Parliament;  459 

Tanagra  figurines  (in  British  Museum),  339 

Tanfield  Court,  Temple,  147 

Tate  Gallery,  the,  27,  343 

Tate,  Sir  Henry,  28,  343 

Tavistock  House,  258,  261 

Temple,  the,  140 ;  Gardens,  141  ;  Church, 
145 

Tennant,    Miss  Dorothy  (Lady   Stanley), 


Tennyson,    Alfred   Lord,    on    Cleopatra's 

Needle,   39;   "London's  central  roar," 

95 

Terburg's  "  Peace  of  Miinster,"  332,  350 
Terra-cotta,  in  building,  470 
Terriss,  William,  284 
Thackeray,    in    Cornhill,    76 ;     in    Great 

Coram  Street,  263  ;  in  Kensington,  216, 

220,  382  ;  on  old  Carlton  House,  181  ; 

Russell    Square,  246 ;     Denmark    Hill, 

371 ;  the  "Zoo,"  405 

Thackeray,  Miss  ("  Old  Kensington  "),  213 
Thames,  influence  on  history  of  London,  2, 

24 

Thames,  Enchantment  of,  49 
Thames  Street,  43,  316 
Thavies'  Inn,  159 
Theatrical  Profession,  the,  274 
Thompson,  Henry  Yates,  344 
"  Thorney  Island,"  188 
"  Time  Machine,"  the,  20 
Tite  Street,  236 
"  Tom-All-Alone's,"  58 
Tomb  of  Gordon,  92  ;  Lord  Leighton,  92  ; 

Duke  of  Wellington,  92 
Tooley  Street,  43,  126 
Torch  Extinguishers,  379 
"  Totencourt,"  Manor  of,  18,  242,  387 
Tottenham  Court  Road,  18 
Tourists  in  London,  247,  424 
Tower,  the,  46,  TOO 
Tower  Bridge,  44 
Tower  Green,  105 
Tower  Lions,  the,  112 
Tower  Victims,  105 
Toynbee,  Arnold,  173 
Toynbee  Hall,  173 
Trades,  special  districts  for,  308 
"  Traitor's  Gate,"  104,  no 
Treasure-houses  of  London,  326 
Trinity  Square,  113,  464 
Turner,  J.  M.  W  ,  R.A.,  26,  49,  347,  355, 


357.  380 
Tyburn,  113 


U 


UiN'REVEALING  EXTERIORS,  359 


VALHALLA,  national,  191 
Vandyck,  351-354 
Van  Eyck,  3=;3 
Vanishing  London,  360 
"  Vanity  Fair,"  246 
"  Vauxhall,"  222 
"  Venetian  Gothic/'  469 
Vergers,  ways  of,  195 
Veronese.  Paolo,  353,  355 
Victoria  Embankment,  32,  41 
Views  in  London,  29,  35,  38,  42,  46,  49,  51, 
265,  389,  394,  411-412 


480 


INDEX 


"  Virginians,"  the,  381 
Visitors  to  London,  424. 


W 


WAIFS  AND  STRAYS,  429,  440 

Wallace,  Sir  Richard,  65,  328,  332 

Wallace  Collection,  327 

Wallace,  Lady,  329 

Walworth,  Sir  William,  65 

"  Wanderlust,"  the,  289 

Warwick  Square,  97 

Watling  Street,  3 

Waterloo  Bridge,  40 

Wat  Tyler,  65 

Webb,  Aston,  60 

Webb,  Philip,  465 

Weller,  Sam,  128 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  378 

Westminster  Abbey,  187  ;  chapel  of  Henry 
VII.,  190,  197  ;  chantry  of  Henry  V., 
194  ;  cloisters,  203  ;  wax  effigies,  200 

Westminster  Bridge,  207 

Westminster  Hall,  205 

Where  to  shop,  303 

Whistler,  J.  McN.,  23,  236 


Whitechapel  Road,  18,  172 

Whitefield's  Tabernacle,  242,  261 

Whitefriars,  13 

Whitehall,  455 

Whitehall  Court,  33 

"White  Tower,"  108 

Whittington,  9 

Wimpole  Street,  380 

Winchester  House  (old),  129 

"  Window  gardens,"  407 

"  Wittenagemot "  Club,  97 

Wood  Street  plane  tree,   10,  81 

"  Working  Men's  College,  The,"  255 

Working  Classes,  168 

Wren,  Sir  Christopher,  7,  86 

Wych  Street,  148 


YIDDISH  colony  in  London,  the,  295 
York  House,  old,  35 
York  Stairs,  35 


ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS,  405 


THE    END 


RICHARD  CLAY  AND  SONS,  LIMITED,  LONDON  AND  BUNGAY. 


THE 

HIGHWAYS    ^    BYWAYS 
SERIES. 

Extra  crown  8vo,  cloth  elegant,  gilt  tops,  flat  backs, 
6s.  each. 

Highways  and   Byways    in   London.     By 

Mrs.  E.  T.  COOK.     With  Illustrations  by  HUGH  THOMSON: 
and  FREDERICK  L.  GRIGGS.     Extra  Crown  8vo,  6s. 

[In  the  Press.] 

Highways  and   Byways  in  5outh  Wales. 

By  A.  G.  BRADLEY.     With  Illustrations  by  FREDERICK 
L.  GRIGGS. 

Highways  and  Byways  in   Hertfordshire. 

By    HERBERT  W.  TOMPKINS,    F.R.Hist.S.      With   Illus- 
trations by  FREDERICK  L.  GRIGGS. 

MORNING  POST. — "A  welcome  addition,  especially  for  the  country- 
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WESTMINSTER  GAZETTE.— •"  A  very  charming  book.  .  .  . 
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MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LTD.,  LONDON. 


Highways  and  Byways  in  the  Lake  Dis= 

trict.       By    A.    G.    BRADLEY.        With    Illustrations    by 
JOSEPH    PEN  NELL. 

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Lakes,  or  intends  to  visit  them  in. a  quiet  spirit,  will  like  to  read." 

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"well.  His  heart  has  been  in  his  subject.  Mr.  Joseph  Pennell  has  found 
abundant  scope  for  his  graceful  art." 

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"who  knows  his  Lakes  well.  To  the  unhappy  man  who  has  not  visited 
this  wonder-land  of  England,  it  will  be  a  scourge  whose  sting  will  not 
depart  until  he  has  made  his  pilgrimage." 

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Highways  and    Byways  in  East    Anglia. 

By  WILLIAM  A.   DUTT.       With  Illustrations  by  JOSEPH 
PENNELL. 

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•district." 

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Anglia  will  delight,  and  which  no  visitor  to  that  part  of  England  should 
fail  to  place  in  his  portmanteau." 

MACMILLAN  AND   CO.,   LTD.,   LONDON. 


Highways   and  Byways  in  North  Wales. 

By  A.  G.  BRADLEY.     With  Illustrations  by  HUGH  THOM- 
SON and  JOSEPH  PENNELL. 

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tantalising  enthusiasm.  It  is  a  work  of  inspiration,  vivid,  sparkling,  and 
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artistic  talent.  .  .  .  This  book  will  be  invaluable  to  many  a  wanderer 
through  the  plains  and  mountains  of  North  Wales." 

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Highways    and    Byways    in    Devon    and 

Cornwall.      By  ARTHUR  H.  NORWAY.      With   Illustra- 
tions by  JOSEPH  PENNELL  and  HUGH  THOMSON. 

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every  west-country  man  from  Axminster  to  the  Land's  End,  and  from  Land's 
End  to  Lynton,  for  within  this  triangle  lie  the  counties  of  Devon  and 
Cornwall." 

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beauty,  that  each  old  story  finds  new  pathos  under  his  skilful  hands,  and 
that  he  has  touched  nothing  that  he  has  not  adorned." 

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an  agreeable  style,  would  make  the  book  welcome  to  all  lovers  of  that 
exquisite  region,  even  without  the  help  of  the  illustrations  by  Mr.  Joseph 
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furnished." 

MACMILLAN   AND    CO.,    LTD.,   LONDON. 


Highways     and     Byways    in     Yorkshire. 

By  ARTHUR  H.  NORWAY.     With  Illustrations  by  JOSEPH 
PENNELL  and  HUGH  THOMSON. 

PALL  MALL  GAZETTE.  —  •  " The  wonderful  story  of  Yorkshire's 
past  provides  Mr.  Norway  with  a  wealth  of  interesting  material,  which 
he  has  used  judiciously  and  well ;  each  grey  ruin  of  castle  and  abbey  he 
has  re-erected  and  re-peopled  in  the  most  delightful  way.  A  better  guide 
and  story-teller  it  would  be  hard  to  find." 

OBSERVER. — "The  fourth  volume  of  the  most  fascinating  series  of 
topographical  books  yet  published.  Bright  descriptions  and  happy 
anecdotes  are  given  by  the  author,  and  innumerable  '  bits '  of  Yorkshire 
scenery  by  two  of  the  best  black-and-white  landscape  artists  of  the  day  go 
to  make  up  a  volume  which  deserves  a  cordial  welcome." 

DAIL  Y  NEWS.—"  The  reputation  of  Messrs.  Macmillan's  '  Highways 
and  Byways '  Series  is  fully  sustained  in  this  interesting  volume,  in  which 
pen  and  pencil  so  happily  combine." 

Highways   and  Byways   in  Donegal   and 

Antrim.     By  STEPHEN  GWYNN.     With  Illustrations  by 
HUGH  THOMSON. 

DAILY  CHRONICLE.  — "C\\a.rm\Kg  .  .  .  Mr.  Gwynn  makes  some 
of  the  old  legends  live  again  for  us,  he  brings  the  peasants  before  us  as  they 
are,  his  descriptions  have  the  '  tear  and  the  smile  '  that  so  well  suit  the 
country,  and  with  scarcely  an  exception  he  has  brought  his  facts  and  his 
figures  up  to  date.  .  .  .  Above  all,  he  shows  that  he  knows  the  people; 
he  enters  into  their  minds  in  a  way  no  Englishman  could.  .  .  .  Most 
entertaining  and  admirably  illustrated." 

DAILY  TELEGRAPH.— •"  A  perfect  book  of  its  kind,  on  which 
author,  artist,  and  publisher  have  lavished  of  their  best." 

Highways  and  Byways  in  Normandy,     By 

PERCY    DEARMER,  M.A.      With  Illustrations  by  JOSEPH 
PENNELL. 

ST.  JAMES'S  GAZETTE.—"  A  charming  book.  .  .  .  Mr.  Dearmer 
is  as  arrestive  in  his  way  as  Mr.  Pennell.  He  has  the  true  topographic  eye. 
He  handles  legend  and  history  in  entertaining  fashion.  .  .  .  Excellently 
does  he  second  Mr.  Pennell's  beautiful  drawings,  and  makes  hackneyed 
places  on  the  'Highways'  and  in  Mont  Saint-Michel,  Rouen,  Coutances, 
and  Caen,  to  shine  forth  with  fresh  significance  and  'new-spangled  ore.'" 

ACADEMY.— "Between  them  Mr.  Dearmer  and  Mr.  Pennell  have 
produced  a  book  which  need  fear  no  rival  in  its  own  field  for  many  a  day." 

MACMILLAN    AND   CO.,  LTD.,   LONDON. 


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Cook,  Emily  Contance  (Baird) 

Highways  and  byways  in 
London